-LOVE    OF    LIFE 

AND    OTHER    STORIES 


BY 


JACK    LONDON 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  CALL  OF  THE  WILD,"   "PEOPLE 
OF  THE  ABYSS,"   ETC.,   ETC. 


gnrfc 
THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

LONDON  :  MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LTD. 


All  rights  reserved 


COPYRIGHT,  1906, 
By  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.      Published  September,  1907.     Reprinted 
December,  1907. 


J.  8.  Gushing  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith  Co. 
Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


MA/A^ 

Contents 


PAGE 

-  Love  of  Life      ........          I 

*"A  Day's  Lodging        .......        43 

-  vFhe  White  Man's  Way       .  .    '      .          .          .          .77 

-"    The  Story  of  Keesh    .          .          .          .          .          .          .105 

» 
*-The  Unexpected          .          .          .          .          .          .          .123 

-Brown  Wolf      .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .167 

—  The  Sun-Dog  Trail;  .;......         '•  ;;     •          •          .      201 

-  Negore,  the  Coward  .§    .     ,  ..............          .          .      243 


261336 


LOVE    OF    LIFE 


LOVE  OF  LIFE* 

"This  out  of  all  will  remain  — 

They  have  lived  and  have  tossed: 
So  much  of  the  game  will  be  gain, 

Though  the  gold  of  the  dice  has  been  lost." 

THEY  limped  painfully  down  the  bank,  and 
once  the  foremost  of  the  two  men  staggered 
among  the  rough-strewn  rocks.  They  were 
tired  and  weak,  and  their  faces  had  the  drawn 
expression  of  patience  which  comes  of  hardship 
long  endured.  They  were  heavily  burdened  with 
blanket  packs  which  were  strapped  to  their  shoulders. 
Head-straps,  passing  across  the  forehead,  helped  sup 
port  these  packs.  Each  man  carried  a  rifle.  They 
walked  in  a  stooped  posture,  the  shoulders  well 
forward,  the  head  still  farther  forward,  the  eyes 
bent  upon  the  ground. 

"I  wish  we  had  just  about  two  of  them  cartridges 
that's  layin'  in  that  cache  of  ourn?"  said  the  second 
man. 

*  COPYRIGHT,  1905,  BY  THE  S.  S.  MCCLURE  COMPANY. 
3 


4      :,  :  LOVE   OF   LIFE 

His  voice  was  utterly  and  drearily  expressionless. 
He  spoke  without  enthusiasm;  and  the  first  man, 
limping  into  the  milky  stream  that  foamed  over  the 
rocks,  vouchsafed  no  reply. 

The  other  man  followed  at  his  heels.  They  did 
not  remove  their  foot-gear,  though  the  water  was 
icy  cold  —  so  cold  that  their  ankles  ached  and  their 
feet  went  numb.  In  places  the  water  dashed  against 
their  knees,  and  both  men  staggered  for  footing. 

The  man  who  followed  slipped  on  a  smooth 
boulder,  nearly  fell,  but  recovered  himself  with  a 
violent  effort,  at  the  same  time  uttering  a  sharp 
exclamation  of  pain.  He  seemed  faint  and  dizzy 
and  put  out  his  free  hand  while  he  reeled,  as  though 
seeking  support  against  the  air.  When  he  had 
steadied  himself  he  stepped  forward,  but  reeled 
again  and  nearly  fell.  Then  he  stood  still  and 
looked  at  the  other  man,  who  had  never  turned  his 
head. 

The  man  stood  still  for  fully  a  minute,  as  though 
debating  with  himself.  Then  he  called  out: 

"I  say,  Bill,  I've  sprained  my  ankle." 

Bill  staggered  on  through  the  milky  water.  He 
did  not  look  around.  The  man  watched  him  go, 


LOVE   OF  LIFE  5 

and  though  his  face  was  expressionless  as  ever,  his 
eyes  were  like  the  eyes  of  a  wounded  deer. 

The  other  man  limped  up  the  farther  bank  and 
continued  straight  on  without  looking  back.  The 
man  in  the  stream  watched  him.  His  lips  trembled 
a  little,  so  that  the  rough  thatch  of  brown  hair  which 
covered  them  was  visibly  agitated.  His  tongue  even 
strayed  out  to  moisten  them. 

"Bill!"   he  cried  out. 

It  was  the  pleading  cry  of  a  strong  man  in  distress, 
but  Bill's  head  did  not  turn.  The  man  watched 
him  go,  limping  grotesquely  and  lurching  forward 
with  stammering  gait  up  the  slow  slope  toward  the 
soft  sky-line  of  the  low-lying  hill.  He  watched  him 
go  till  he  passed  over  the  crest  and  disappeared. 
Then  he  turned  his  gaze  and  slowly  took  in  the 
circle  of  the  world  that  remained  to  him  now  that 
Bill  was  gone. 

Near  the  horizon  the  sun  was  smouldering  dimly, 
almost  obscured  by  formless  mists  and  vapors, 
which  gave  an  impression  of  mass  and  density  with 
out  outline  or  tangibility.  The  man  pulled  out  his 
watch,  the  while  resting  his  weight  on  one  leg.  It 
was  four  o'clock,  and  as  the  season  was  near  the 


6  LOVE   OF   LIFE 

last  of  July  or  first  of  August,  —  he  did  not  know 
the  precise  date  within  a  week  or  two,  —  he  knew 
that  the  sun  roughly  marked  the  northwest.  He 
looked  to  the  south  and  knew  that  somewhere  be 
yond  those  bleak  hills  lay  the  Great  Bear  Lake; 
also,  he  knew  that  in  that  direction  the  Arctic  Circle 
cut  its  forbidding  way  across  the  Canadian  Barrens. 
This  stream  in  which  he  stood  was  a  feeder  to  the 
Coppermine  River,  which  in  turn  flowed  north  and 
emptied  into  Coronation  Gulf  and  the  Arctic  Ocean. 
He  had  never  been  there,  but  he  had  seen  it,  once, 
on  a  Hudson  Bay  Company  chart. 

Again  his  gaze  completed  the  circle  of  the  world 
about  him.  It  was  not  a  heartening  spectacle. 
Everywhere  was  soft  sky-line.  The  hills  were  all 
low-lying.  There  were  no  trees,  no  shrubs,  no 
grasses  —  naught  but  a  tremendous  and  terrible 
desolation  that  sent  fear  swiftly  dawning  into  his 
eyes. 

"Bill!"    he  whispered,  once  and  twice;    "Bill!" 

He  cowered  in  the  midst  of  the  milky  water,  as 

though  the  vastness  were  pressing  in  upon  him  with 

overwhelming  force,  brutally  crushing  him  with  its 

complacent  awfulness.     He  began  ,to  shake  as  with 


LOVE   OF  LIFE  7 

an  ague-fit,  till  the  gun  fell  from  his  hand  with  a 
splash.  This  served  to  rouse  him.  He  fought  with 
his  fear  and  pulled  himself  together,  groping  in  the 
water  and  recovering  the  weapon.  He  hitched  his 
pack  farther  over  on  his  left  shoulder,  so  as  to  take 
a  portion  of  its  weight  from  off  the  injured  ankle. 
-TijBJr  he  proceeded,  slowly  and  carefully,  wincing 
with  pain,  to  the  bank. 

He  did  not  stop.  With  a  desperation  that  was 
madness,  unmindful  of  the  pain,  he  hurried  up  the 
slope  to  the  crest  of  the  hill  over  which  his  comrade 
had  disappeared  —  more  grotesque  and  comical  by 
far  than  that  limping,  jerking  comrade.  But  at  the 
crest  he  saw  a  shallow  valley,  empty  of  life.  He 
fought  with  his  fear  again,  overcame  it,  hitched  the 
pack  still  farther  over  on  his  left  shoulder,  and 
lurched  on  down  the  slope. 

The  bottom  of  the  valley  was  soggy  with  water, 
which  the  thick  moss  held,  spongelike,  close  to  the 
surface.  This  water  squirted  out  from  under  his 
feet  at  every  step,  and  each  time  he  lifted  a  foot 
the  action  culminated  in  a  sucking  sound  as  the 
wet  moss  reluctantly  released  its  grip.  He  picked 
his  way  from  muskeg  to  muskeg,  and  followed  the 


8  LOVE   OF  LIFE 

other  man's  footsteps  along  and  across  the  rocky 
ledges  which  thrust  like  islets  through  the  sea  of 
moss. 

Though  alone,  he  was  not  lost.  Farther  on  he 
knew  he  would  come  to  where  dead  spruce  and  fir, 
very  small  and  weazened,  bordered  the  shore  of  a 
little  lake,  the  titchin-nichilie3  in  the  tongue  of  the 
country,  the  "land  of  little  sticks."  And  into  that 
lake  flowed  a  small  stream,  the  water  of  which  was 
not  milky.  There  was  rush-grass  on  that  stream  — 
this  he  remembered  well  —  but  no  timber,  and  he 
would  follow  it  till  its  first  trickle  ceased  at  a  divide. 
He  would  cross  this  divide  to  the  first  trickle  of  an 
other  stream,  flowing  to  the  west,  which  he  would 
follow  until  it  emptied  into  the  river  Dease,  and 
here  he  would  find  a  cache  under  an  upturned 
canoe  and  piled  over  with  many  rocks.  Ajid  in 
this  cache  would  be  ammunition  for  his  empty  gun, 
fish-hooks  and  lines,  a  small  net  —  all  the  utilities 
for  the  killing  and  snaring  of  food.  Also,  he  would 
find  flour,  —  not  much,  —  a  piece  of  bacon,  and  some 
beans. 

Bill  would  be  waiting  for  him  there,  and  they 
would  paddle  away  south  down  the  Dease  to  the 


LOVE   OF  LIFE  9 

Great  Bear  Lake.  And  south  across  the  lake  they 
would  go,  ever  south,  till  they  gained  the  Mackenzie. 
And  south,  still  south,  they  would  go,  while  the 
winter  raced  vainly  after  them,  and  the  ice  formed 
in  the  eddies,  and  the  days  grew  chill  and  crisp, 
south  to  some  warm  Hudson  Bay  Company  post, 
where  timber  grew  tall  and  generous  and  there  was 
grub  without  end. 

These  were  the  thoughts  of  the  man  as  he  strove 
onward.  But  hard  as  he  strove  with  his  body,  he 
strove  equally  hard  with  his  mind,  trying  to  think 
that  Bill  had  not  deserted  him,  that  Bill  would 
surely  wait  for  him  at  the  cache.  He  was  compelled 
to  think  this  thought,  or  else  there  would  not  be  any 
use  to  strive,  and  he  would  have  lain  down  and  died. 
And  as  the  dim  ball  of  the  sun  sank  slowly  into  the 
northwest  he  covered  every  inch  —  and  many  times  — 
of  his  and  Bill's  flight  south  before  the  downcoming 
winter.  And  he  conned  the  grub  of  the  cache  and 
the  grub  of  the  Hudson  Bay  Company  post  over 
and  over  again.  He  had  not  eaten  for  two  days; 
for  a  far  longer  time  he  had  not  had  all  he  wanted 
to  eat.  Often  he  stooped  and  picked  pale  muskeg 
berries,  put  them  into  his  mouth,  and  chewed  and 


io  LOVE   OF   LIFE 

swallowed  them.  A  muskeg  berry  is  a  bit  of 'seed 
enclosed  in  a  bit  of  water.  In  the  mouth  the  water 
melts  away  and  the  seed  chews  sharp  and  bitter., 
The  man  knew  there  was  no  nourishment  in  the 
berries,  but  he  chewed  them  patiently  with  a  hope 
greater  than  knowledge  and  defying  experience. 

At  nine  o'clock  he  stubbed  his  toe  on  a  rocky 
ledge,  and  from  sheer  weariness  and  weakness- 
staggered  and  fell.  He  lay  for  some  time,  without 
movement,  on  his  side.  Then  he  slipped  out  of  the 
pack-straps  and  clumsily  dragged  himself  into  a 
sitting  posture.  It  was  not  yet  dark,  and  in  the 
lingering  twilight  he  groped  about  among  the  rocks 
for  shreds  of  dry  moss.  When  he  had  gathered  a 
heap  he  built  a  fire,  —  a  smouldering,  smudgy  fire,  — 
and  put  a  tin  pot  of  water  on  to  boil. 

He  unwrapped  his  pack  and  the  first  thing  he 
did  was  to  count  his  matches.  There  were  sixty- 
seven.  He  counted  them  three  times  to  make  sure. 
He  divided  them  into  several  portions,  wrapping 
them  in  oil  paper,  disposing  of  one  bunch  in  his 
empty  tobacco  pouch,  of  another  bunch  in  the 
inside  band  of  his  battered  hat,  of  a  third  bunch 
under  his  shirt  on  the  chest.  This  accomplished, 


LOVE    OF   LIFE  n 

a  panic  came  upon  him,  and  he  unwrapped  them  all 
and  counted  them  again.  There  were  still  sixty- 
seven. 

He  dried  his  wet  foot-gear  by  the  fire.  The 
moccasins  were  in  soggy  shreds.  The  blanket  socks 
were  worn  through  in  places,  and  his  feet  were  raw 
and  bleeding.  His  ankle  was  throbbing,  and  he 
gave  it  an  examination.  It  had  swollen  to  the  size 
of  his  knee.  He  tore  a  long  strip  from  one  of  his 
two  blankets  and  bound  the  ankle  tightly.  He  tore 
other  strips  and  bound  them  about  his  feet  to  serve 
for  both  moccasins  and  socks.  Then  he  drank  the 
pot  of  water,  steaming  hot,  wound  his  watch,  and 
crawled  between  his  blankets. 

He  slept  like  a  dead  man.  The  brief  darkness 
around  midnight  came  and  went.  The  sun  arose 
in  the  northeast  —  at  least  the  day  dawned  in  that 
quarter,  for  the  sun  was  hidden  by  gray  clouds. 

At  six  o'clock  he  awoke,  quietly  lying  on  his 
back.  He  gazed  straight  up  into  the  gray  sky  and 
knew  that  he  was  hungry.  As  he  rolled  over  on  his 
elbow  he  was  startled  by  a  loud  snort,  and  saw  a 
bull  caribou  regarding  him  with  alert  curiosity. 
The  animal  was  not  more  than  fifty  feet  away,  and 


12  LOVE   OF   LIFE 

instantly  into  the  man's  mind  leaped  the  vision  and 
the  savor  of  a  caribou  steak  sizzling  and  frying  over 
a  fire.  Mechanically  he  reached  for  the  empty  gun, 
drew  a  bead,  and  pulled  the  trigger.  The  bull 
snorted  and  leaped  away,  his  hoofs  rattling  and 
clattering  as  he  fled  across  the  ledges. 

The  man  cursed  and  flung  the  empty  gun  from 
him.  He  groaned  aloud  as  he  started  to  drag  him 
self  to  his  feet.  It  was  a  slow  and  arduous  task. 
His  joints  were  like  rusty  hinges.  They  worked 
harshly  in  their  sockets,  with  much  friction,  and 
each  bending  or  unbending  was  accomplished  only 
through  a  sheer  exertion  of  will.  When  he  finally 
gained  his  feet,  another  minute  or  so  was  consumed 
in  straightening  up,  so  that  he  could  stand  erect  as 
a  man  should  stand. 

He  crawled  up  a  small  knoll  and  surveyed  the 
prospect.  There  were  no  trees,  no  bushes,  nothing 
but  a  gray  sea  of  moss  scarcely  diversified  by 
gray  rocks,  gray  lakelets,  and  gray  streamlets. 
The  sky  was  gray.  There  was  no  sun  nor  hint  of 
sun.  He  had  no  idea  of  north,  and  he  had  for 
gotten  the  way  he  had  come  to  this  spot  the  night 
before.  But  he  was  not  lost.  He  knew  that. 


LOVE   OF   LIFE  13 

Soon  he  would  come  to  the  land  of  the  little  sticks. 
He  felt  that  it  lay  off  to  the  left  somewhere,  not  far 
-  possibly  just  over  the  next  low  hill. 

He  went  back  to  put  his  pack  into  shape  for 
travelling.  He  assured  himself  of  the  existence  of 
his  three  separate  parcels  of  matches,  though  he 
did  not  stop  to  count  them.  But  he  did  linger, 
debating,  over  a  squat  moose-hide  sack.  It  was 
not  large.  He  could  hide  it  under  his  two  hands. 
He  knew  that  it  weighed  fifteen  pounds,  —  as  much 
as  all  the  rest  of  the  pack,  —  and  it  worried  him. 
He  finally  set  it  to  one  side  and  proceeded  to  roll 
the  pack.  He  paused  to  gaze  at  the  squat  moose- 
hide  sack.  He  picked  it  up  hastily  with  a  defiant 
glance  about  him,  as  though  the  desolation  were 
trying  to  rob  him  of  it;  and  when  he  rose  to  his 
feet  to  stagger  on  into  the  day,  it  was  included  in 
the  pack  on  his  back. 

He  bore  away  to  the  left,  stopping  now  and  again 
to  eat  muskeg  berries.  His  ankle  had  stiffened,  hlt:- 
limp  was  more  pronounced,  but  the  pain  of  it  \*sn~ 
as  nothing  compared  with  the  pain  of  his  stomadg* 
The  hunger  pangs  were  sharp.  They  gnawed  am 
gnawed  until  he  could  not  keep  his  mind  steady  on 


14  LOVE    OF   LIFE 

the  course  he  must  pursue  to  gain  the  land  of  little 
sticks.  The  muskeg  berries  did  not  allay  this 
gnawing,  while  they  made  his  tongue  and  the  roof 
of  his  mouth  sore  with  their  irritating  bite. 

He  came  upon  a  valley  where  rock  ptarmigan 
rose  on  whirring  wings  from  the  ledges  and  muskegs. 
Ker  —  ker  —  ker  was  the  cry  they  made.  He  threw 
stones  at  them,  but  could  not  hit  them.  He  placed 
his  pack  on  the  ground  and  stalked  them  as  a  cat 
stalks  a  sparrow.  The  sharp  rocks  cut  through  his 
pants'  legs  till  his  knees  left  a  trail  of  blood;  but  the 
hurt  was  lost  in  the  hurt  of  his  hunger.  He  squirmed 
over  the  wet  moss,  saturating  his  clothes  and  chilling 
his  body;  but  he  was  not  aware  of  it,  so  great  was 
his  fever  for  food.  And  always  the  ptarmigan  rose, 
whirririg,  before  him,  till  their  ker  —  ker  —  ker  be 
came  a  mock  to  him,  and  he  cursed  them  and  cried 
aloud  at  them  with  their  own  cry. 

Once  he  crawled  upon  one  that  must  have  been 
Asleep.  He  did  not  see  it  till  it  shot  up  in  his  face 
L  n,m  its  rocky  nook.  He  made  a  clutch  as  startled 
sus  was  the  rise  of  the  ptarmigan,  and  there  remained 
g'n  his  hand  three  tail-feathers.  As  he  watched  its 
1  flight  he  hated  it,  as  though  it  had  done  him  some 


LOVE    OF   LIFE  15 

terrible  wrong.  Then  he  returned  and  shouldered 
his  pack. 

As  the  day  wore  along  he  came  into  valleys  or 
swales  where  game  was  more  plentiful.  A  band 
of  caribou  passed  by,  twenty  and  odd  animals, 
tantalizingly  within  rifle  range.  He  felt  a  wild 
desire  to  run  after  them,  a  certitude  that  he  could 
run  them  down.  A  black  fox  came  toward  him, 
carrying  a  ptarmigan  in  his  mouth.  The  man 
shouted.  It  was  a  fearful  cry,  but  the  fox,  leaping 
away  in  fright,  did  not  drop  the  ptarmigan. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  he  followed  a  stream,  milky 
with  lime,  which  ran  through  sparse  patches  of  rush- 
grass.  Grasping  these  rushes  firmly  near  the  root, 
he  pulled  up  what  resembled  a  young  onion-sprout 
no  larger  than  a  shingle-nail.  It  was  tender,  and 
his  teeth  sank  into  it  with  a  crunch  that  promised 
deliciously  of  food.  But  its  fibers  were  tough.  It 
was  composed  of  stringy  filaments  saturated  with 
water,  like  the  berries,  and  devoid  of  nourishment. 
He  threw  off  his  pack  and  went  into  the  rush- 
grass  on  hands  and  knees,  crunching  and  munching, 
like  some  bovine  creature. 

He  was  very  weary  and  often  wished  to  rest  - 


16  LOVE   OF   LIFE 

to  lie  down  and  sleep;  but  he  was  continually 
driven  on  —  not  so  much  by  his  desire  to  gain  the 
land  of  little  sticks  as  by  his  hunger.  He  searched 
little  ponds  for  frogs  and  dug  up  the  earth  with  his 
nails  for  worms,  though  he  knew  in  spite  that  neither 
frogs  nor  worms  existed  so  far  north. 

He  looked  into  every  pool  of  water  vainly,  until, 
as  the  long  twilight  came  on,  he  discovered  a  solitary 
fish,  the  size  of  a  minnow,  in  such  a  pool.  He 
plunged  his  arm  in  up  to  the  shoulder,  but  it  eluded 
him.  He  reached  for  it  with  both  hands  and  stirred 
up  the  milky  mud  at  the  bottom.  In  his  excitement 
he  fell  in,  wetting  himself  to  the  waist.  Then  the 
water  was  too  muddy  to  admit  of  his  seeing  the 
fish,  and  he  was  compelled  to  wait  until  the  sedi 
ment  had  settled. 

The  pursuit  was  renewed,  till  the  water  was  again 
muddied.  But  he  could  not  wait.  He  unstrapped 
the  tin  bucket  and  began  to  bale  the  pool.  He 
baled  wildly  at  first,  splashing  himself  and  flinging 
the  water  so  short  a  distance  that  it  ran  back  into 
the  pool.  He  worked  more  carefully,  striving  to 
be  cool,  though  his  heart  was  pounding  against  his 
chest  and  his  hands  were  trembling.  At  the  end 


LOVE   OF   LIFE 

of  half  an  hour  the  pool  was  nearly  dry.     N< 
cupful  of  water  remained.     And  there  was  no 
He  found  a  hidden  crevice  among  the  stones  thn 
which   it  had  escaped  to  the   adjoining  and  \i 
pool  —  a  pool  which  he  could  not  empty  in  a  i 
and  a  day.     Had  he  known  of  the  crevice,  he  c 
have  closed  it  with  a  rock  at  the  beginning  an< 
fish  would  have  been  his. 

Thus  he  thought,  and  crumpled  up  and 
down  upon  the  wet  earth.  At  first  he  cried  softly 
to  himself,  then  he  cried  loudly  to  the  pitiless  desola 
tion  that  ringed  him  around;  and  for  a  long  time 
after  he  was  shaken  by  great  dry  sobs. 

He  built  a  fire  and  warmed  himself  by  drinking 
quarts  of  hot  water,  and  made  camp  on  a  rocky 
ledge  in  the  same  fashion  he  had  the  night  before. 
The  last  thing  he  did  was  to  see  that  his  matches 
were  dry  and  to  wind  his  watch.  The  blankets 
were  wet  and  clammy.  His  ankle  pulsed  with  pain. 
But  he  knew  only  that  he  was  hungry,  and  through 
his  restless  sleep  he  dreamed  of  feasts  and  banquets 
and  of  food  served  and  spread  in  all  imaginable  ways. 

He  awoke  chilled  and  sick.  There  'vas  no  sun. 
The  gray  of  earth  and  sky  had  become  deeper, 


i8  LOVE    OF   LIFE 

more  profound.  A  raw  wind  was  blowing,  and  the 
first  flurries  of  snow  were  whitening  the  hilltops. 
The  air  about  him  thickened  and  grew  white  while 
he  made  a  fire  and  boiled  more  water.  It  was  wet 
snow,  half  rain,  and  the  flakes  were  large  and  soggy. 
At  first  they  melted  as  soon  as  they  came  in  contact 
with  the  earth,  but  ever  more  fell,  covering  the 
ground,  putting  out  the  fire,  spoiling  his  supply  of 
moss-fuel. 

This  was  a  signal  for  him  to  strap  on  his  pack 
and  stumble  onward,  he  knew  not  where.  He  was 
not  concerned  with  the  land  of  little  sticks,  nor  with 
Bill  and  the  cache  under  the  upturned  canoe  by  the 
river  Dease.  He  was  mastered  by  the  verb  "to 
eat."  He  was  hunger-mad.  He  took  no  heed  of 
the  course  he  pursued,  so  long  as  that  course  led 
him  through  the  swale  bottoms.  He  felt  his  way 
through  the  wet  snow  to  the  watery  muskeg  berries, 
and  went  by  feel  as  he  pulled  up  the  rush-grass  by 
the  roots.  But  it  was  tasteless  stuff  and  did  not 
satisfy.  He  found  a  weed  that  tasted  sour  and  he 
ate  all  he  could  find  of  it,  which  was  not  much,  for 
it  was  a  creeping  growth,  easily  hidden  under  the 
several  inches  of  snow. 


LOVE    OF   LIFE  19 

He  had  no  fire  that  night,  nor  hot  water,  and 
crawled  under  his  blanket  to  sleep  the  broken 
hunger-sleep.  The  snow  turned  into  a  cold  rain. 
He  awakened  many  times  to  feel  it  falling  on  his 
upturned  face.  Day  came  —  a  gray  day  and  no 
sun.  It  had  ceased  raining.  The  keenness  of  his 
hunger  had  departed.  Sensibility,  as  far  as  con 
cerned  the  yearning  for  food,  had  been  exhausted. 
There  was  a  dull,  heavy  ache  in  his  stomach,  but  it 
did  not  bother  him  so  much.  He  was  more  rational, 
and  once  more  he  was  chiefly  interested  in  the  land 
of  little  sticks  and  the  cache  by  the  river  Dease. 

He  ripped  the  remnant  of  one  of  his  blankets 
into  strips  and  bound  his  bleeding  feet.  Also,  he 
recinched  the  injured  ankle  and  prepared  himself 
for  a  day  of  travel.  When  he  came  to  his  pack,  he 
paused  long  over  the  squat  moose-hide  sack,  but  in 
the  end  it  went  with  him. 

The  snow  had  melted  under  the  rain,  and  only 
the  hilltops  showed  white.  The  sun  came  out,  and 
he  succeeded  in  locating  the  points  of  the  compass, 
though  he  knew  now  that  he  was  lost.  Perhaps, 
in  his  previous  days'  wanderings,  he  had  edged 
away  too  far  to  the  left.  He  now  bore  off  to  the 


20  LOVE    OF   LIFE 

right  to  counteract  the  possible  deviation  from  his 
true  course. 

Though  the  hunger  pangs  were  no  longer  so 
exquisite,  he  realized  that  he  was  weak.  He  was 
compelled  to  pause  for  frequent  rests,  when  he 
attacked  the  muskeg  berries  and  rush-grass  patches. 
His  tongue  felt  dry  and  large,  as  though  covered 
with  a  fine  hairy  growth,  and  it  tasted  bitter  in  his 
mouth.  His  heart  gave  him  a  great  deal  of  trouble. 
When  he  had  travelled  a  few  minutes  it  would  begin 
a  remorseless  thump,  thump,  thump,  and  then  leap 
up  and  away  in  a  painful  flutter  of  beats  that  choked 
him  and  made  him  go  faint  and  dizzy. 

In  the  middle  of  the  day  he  found  two  minnows 
in  a  large  pool.  It  was  impossible  to  bale  it,  but 
he  was  calmer  now  and  managed  to  catch  them  in 
his  tin  bucket.  They  were  no  longer  than  his  little 
finger,  but  he  was  not  particularly  hungry.  The 
dull  ache  in  his  stomach  had  been  growing  duller 
and  fainter.  It  seemed  almost  that  his  stomach 
was  dozing.  He  ate  the  fish  raw,  masticating  with 
painstaking  care,  for  the  eating  was  an  act  of  pure 
reason.  While  he  had  no  desire  to  eat,  he  knew 
that  he  must  eat  to  live. 


LOVE    OF   LIFE  21 

In  the  evening  he  caught  three  more  minnows, 
eating  two  and  saving  the  third  for  breakfast.  The 
sun  had  dried  stray  shreds  of  moss,  and  he  was  able 
to  warm  himself  with  hot  water.  He  had  not 
covered  more  than  ten  miles  that  day;  and  the  next 
day,  travelling  whenever  his  heart  permitted  him, 
he  covered  no  more  than  five  miles.  But  his  stomach 
did  not  give  him  the  slightest  uneasiness.  It  had 
gone  to  sleep.  He  was  in  a  strange  country,  too, 
and  the  caribou  were  growing  more  plentiful,  also 
the  wolves.  Often  their  yelps  drifted  across  the 
desolation,  and  once  he  saw  three  of  them  slinking 
away  before  his  path. 

Another  night;  and  in  the  morning,  being  more 
rational,  he  untied  the  leather  string  that  fastened 
the  squat  moose-hide  sack.  From  its  open  mouth 
poured  a  yellow  stream  of  coarse  gold-dust  and 
nuggets.  He  roughly  divided  the  gold  in  halves, 
caching  one  half  on  a  prominent  ledge,  wrapped  in 
a  piece  of  blanket,  and  returning  the  other  half  to 
the  sack.  He  also  began  to  use  strips  of  the  one 
remaining  blanket  for  his  feet.  He  still  clung  to 
his  gun,  for  there  were  cartridges  in  that  cache  by 
the  river  Dease. 


22  LOVE   OF   LIFE 

This  was  a  day  of  fog,  and  this  day  hunger  awoke 
in  him  again.  He  was  very  weak  and  was  afflicted 
with  a  giddiness  which  at  times  blinded  him.  It 
was  no  uncommon  thing  now  for  him  to  stumble 
and  fall;  and  stumbling  once,  he  fell  squarely  into 
a  ptarmigan  nest.  There  were  four  newly  hatched 
chicks,  a  day  old  —  little  specks  of  pulsating  life  no 
more  than  a  mouthful;  and  he  ate  them  ravenously, 
thrusting  them  alive  into  his  mouth  and  crunching 
them  like  egg-shells  between  his  teeth.  The  mother 
ptarmigan  beat  about  him  with  great  outcry.  He 
used  his  gun  as  a  club  with  which  to  knock  her 
over,  but  she  dodged  out  of  reach.  He  threw 
stones  at  her  and  with  one  chance  shot  broke  a 
wing.  Then  she  fluttered  away,  running,  trailing 
the  broken  wing,  with  him  in  pursuit. 

The  little  chicks  had  no  more  than  whetted  his 
appetite.  He  hopped  and  bobbed  clumsily  along 
on  his  injured  ankle,  throwing  stones  and  screaming 
hoarsely  at  times;  at  other  times  hopping  and  bob 
bing  silently  along,  picking  himself  up  grimly  and 
patiently  when  he  fell,  or  rubbing  his  eyes  with  his 
hand  when  the  giddiness  threatened  to  overpower 
him. 


LOVE    OF   LIFE  23 

The  chase  led  him  across  swampy  ground  in  the 
bottom  of  the  valley,  and  he  came  upon  footprints 
in  the  soggy  moss.  They  were  not  his  own  —  he 
could  see  that.  They  must  be  Bill's.  But  he  could 
not  stop,  for  the  mother  ptarmigan  was  running  on. 
He  would  catch  her  first,  then  he  would  return  and 
investigate. 

He  exhausted  the  mother  ptarmigan;  but  he 
exhausted  himself.  She  lay  panting  on  her  side. 
He  lay  panting  on  his  side,  a  dozen  feet  away,  un 
able  to  crawl  to  her.  And  as  he  recovered  she  re 
covered,  fluttering  out  of  reach  as  his  hungry  hand 
went  out  to  her.  The  chase  was  resumed.  Night 
settled  down  and  she  escaped.  He  stumbled  from 
weakness  and  pitched  head  foremost  on  his  face, 
cutting  his  cheek,  his  pack  upon  his  back.  He  did 
not  move  for  a  long  while;  then  he  rolled  over  on 
his  side,  wound  his  watch,  and  lay  there  until 
morning. 

Another  day  of  fog.  Half  of  his  last  blanket  had 
gone  into  foot-wrappings.  He  failed  to  pick  up 
Bill's  trail.  It  did  not  matter.  His  hunger  was 
driving  him  too  compellingly  —  only  —  only  he 
wondered  if  Bill,  too,  were  lost.  By  midday  the 


24  LOVE    OF   LIFE 

irk  of  his  pack  became  too  oppressive.  Again  he 
divided  the  gold,  this  time  merely  spilling  half  of 
it  on  the  ground.  In  the  afternoon  he  threw  the 
rest  of  it  away,  there  remaining  to  him  only  the 
half-blanket,  the  tin  bucket,  and  the  rifle. 

An  hallucination  began  to  trouble  him.  He  felt 
confident  that  one  cartridge  remained  to  him.  It 
was  in  the  chamber  of  the  rifle  and  he  had  overlooked 
it.  On  the  other  hand,  he  knew  all  the  time  that 
the  chamber  was  empty.  But  the  hallucination 
persisted.  He  fought  it  off  for  hours,  then  threw 
his  rifle  open  and  was  confronted  with  emptiness. 
The  disappointment  was  as  bitter  as  though  he  had 
really  expected  to  find  the  cartridge. 

He  plodded  on  for  half  an  hour,  when  the  hal 
lucination  arose  again.  Again  he  fought  it,  and  still 
it  persisted,  till  for  very  relief  he  opened  his  rifle 
to  unconvince  himself.  At  times  his  mind  wan 
dered  farther  afield,  and  he  plodded  on,  a  mere 
automaton,  strange  conceits  and  whimsicalities  gnaw 
ing  at  his  brain  like  worms.  But  these  excursions 
out  of  the  real  were  of  brief  duration,  for  ever  the 
pangs  of  the  hunger-bite  called  him  back.  He 
was  jerked  back  abruptly  once  from  such  an  excur- 


LOVE    OF   LIFE  25 

sion  by  a  sight  that  caused  him  nearly  to  faint.  He 
reeled  and  swayed,  doddering  like  a  drunken  man 
to  keep  from  falling.  Before  him  stood  a  horse. 
A  horse !  He  could  not  believe  his  eyes.  A  thick 
!  mist  was  in  them,  intershot  with  sparkling  points 
of  light.  He  rubbed  his  eyes  savagely  to  clear  his 
vision,  and  beheld,  not  a  horse,  but  a  great  brown 
bear.  The  animal  was  studying  him  with  bellicose 
curiosity. 

The  man  had  brought  his  gun  halfway  to  his 
shoulder  before  he  realized.  He  lowered  it  and  drew 
his  hunting-knife  from  its  beaded  sheath  at  his  hip. 
Before  him  was  meat  and  life.  He  ran  his  thumb 
along  the  edge  of  his  knife.  It  was  sharp.  The 
point  was  sharp.  He  would  fling  himself  upon  the 
bear  and  kill  it.  But  his  heart  began  its  warning 
thump,  thump,  thump.  Then  followed  the  wild 
upward  leap  and  tattoo  of  flutters,  the  pressing  as 
of  an  iron  band  about  his  forehead,  the  creeping  of 
the  dizziness  into  his  brain. 

His  desperate  courage  was  evicted  by  a  great 
surge  of  fear.  In  his  weakness,  what  if  the  animal 
attacked  him  ?  He  drew  himself  up  to  his  most  im 
posing  stature,  gripping  the  knife  and  staring  hard 


26  LOVE    OF   LIFE 

at  the  bear.  The  bear  advanced  clumsily  a  couple 
of  steps,  reared  up,  and  gave  vent  to  a  tentative 
growl.  If  the  man  ran,  he  would  run  after  him; 
but  the  man  did  not  run.  He  was  animated  now 
with  the  courage  of  fear.  He,  too,  growled,  savagely, 
terribly,  voicing  the  fear  that  is  to  life  germane  and 
that  lies  twisted  about  life's  deepest  roots. 

The  bear  edged  away  to  one  side,  growling  men 
acingly,  himself  appalled  by  this  mysterious  creature 
that  appeared  upright  and  unafraid.  But  the  man 
did  not  move.  He  stood  like  a  statue  till  the  danger 
was  past,  when  he  yielded  to  a  fit  of  trembling  and 
sank  down  into  the  wet  moss. 

He  pulled  himself  together  and  went  on,  afraid 
now  in  a  new  way.  It  was  not  the  fear  that  he 
should  die  passively  from  lack  of  food,  but  that  he 
should  be  destroyed  violently  before  starvation  had 
exhausted  the  last  particle  of  the  en,deavor  in  him 
that  made  toward  surviving.  There  were  the 
wolves.  Back  and  forth  across  the  desolation 
drifted  their  howls,  weaving  the  very  air  into  a  fabric 
of  menace  that  was  so  tangible  that  he  found  him 
self,  arms  in  the  air,  pressing  it  back  from  him  as 
it  might  be  the  walls  of  a  wind-blown  tent. 


LOVE   OF   LIFE  27 

Now  and  again  the  wolves,  in  packs  of  two  and 
three,  crossed  his  path.  But  they  sheered  clear  of 
him.  They  were  not  in  sufficient  numbers,  and 
besides  they  were  hunting  the  caribou,  which  did 
not  battle,  while  this  strange  creature  that  walked 
erect  might  scratch  and  bite. 

In  the  late  afternoon  he  came  upon  scattered 
bones  where  the  wolves  had  made  a  kill.  The 
debris  had  been  a  caribou  calf  an  hour  before, 
squawking  and  running  and  very  much  alive.  He 
contemplated  the  bones,  clean-picked  and  polished, 
pink  with  the  cell-life  in  them  which  had  not  yet 
died.  Could  it  possibly  be  that  he  might  be  that  ere 
the  day  was  done !  Such  was  life,  eh  ?  A  vain  and 
fleeting  thing.  It  was  only  life  that  pained.  There 
was  no  hurt  in  death.  To  die  was  to  sleep.  It 
meant  cessation,  rest.  Then  why  was  he  not  content 
to  die  ? 

But  he  did  not  moralize  long.  He  was  squatting 
in  the  moss,  a  bone  in  his  mouth,  sucking  at  the 
shreds  of  life  that  still  dyed  it  faintly  pink.  The 
sweet  meaty  taste,  thin  and  elusive  almost  as  a 
memory,  maddened  him.  He  closed  his  jaws  on 
the  bones  and  crunched.  Sometimes  it  was  the 


28  LOVE   OF   LIFE 

bone  that  broke,  sometimes  his  teeth.  Then  he 
crushed  the  bones  between  rocks,  pounded  them 
to  a  pulp,  and  swallowed  them.  He  pounded  his 
fingers,  too,  in  his  haste,  and  yet  found  a  moment 
in  which  to  feel  surprise  at  the  fact  that  his  fingers 
did  not  hurt  much  when  caught  under  the  descend 
ing  rock. 

Came  frightful  days  of  snow  and  rain.  He  did 
not  know  when  he  made  camp,  when  he  broke 
camp.  He  travelled  in  the  night  as  much  as  in 
the  day.  He  rested  wherever  he  fell,  crawled  on 
whenever  the  dying  life  in  him  flickered  up  and 
burned  less  dimly.  He,  as  a  man,  no  longer  strove. 
It  was  the  life  in  him,  unwilling  to  die,  that  drove 
him  on.  He  did  not  suffer.  His  nerves  had  be 
come  blunted,  numb,  while  his  mind  was  filled  with 
weird  visions  and  delicious  dreams. 

But  ever  he  sucked  and  chewed  on  the  crushed 
bones  of  the  caribou  calf,  the  least  remnants  of 
which  he  had  gathered  up  and  carried  with  him. 
He  crossed  no  more  hills  or  divides,  but  auto 
matically  followed  a  large  stream  which  flowed 
through  a  wide  and  shallow  valley.  He  did  not  see 
this  stream  nor  this  valley.  He  saw  nothing  save 


LOVE   OF   LIFE  29 

visions.  Soul  and  body  walked  or  crawled  side  by 
side,  yet  apart,  so  slender  was  the  thread  that  bound 
them. 

He  awoke  in  his  right  raind,  lying  on  his  back  on 
a  rocky  ledge.  The  sun  was  shining  bright  and 
warm.  Afar  off  he  heard  the  squawking  of  caribou 
calves.  He  was  aware  of  vague  memories  of  rain 
and  wind  and  snow,  but  whether  he  had  been  beaten 
by  the  storm  for  two  days  or  two  weeks  he  did  not 
know. 

( For  some  time  he  lay  without  movement,  the 
genial  sunshine  pouring  upon  him  and  saturating 
his  miserable  body  with  its  warmth.  A  fine  day, 
he  thought.  Perhaps  he  could  manage  to  locate 
himself.  By  a  painful  effort  he  rolled  over  on  his 
side.  Below  him  flowed  a  wide  and  sluggish  river. 
Its  unfamiliarity  puzzled  him.  Slowly  he  followed 
it  with  his  eyes,  winding  in  wide  sweeps  among  the 
bleak,  bare  hills,  bleaker  and  barer  and  lower- 
lying  than  any  hills  he  had  yet  encountered.  Slowly, 
deliberately,  without  excitement  or  more  than  the 
most  casual  interest,  he  followed  the  course  of 
the  strange  stream  toward  the  sky-line  and  saw  it 
emptying  into  a  bright  and  shining  sea.  He  was 


30  LOVE   OF   LIFE 

still  unexcited.  Most  unusual,  he  thought,  a  vision 
or  a  mirage  —  more  likely  a  vision,  a  trick  of  his 
disordered  mind.  He  was  confirmed  in  this  by 
sight  of  a  ship  lying  at  anchor  in  the  midst  of  the 
shining  sea.  He  closed  his  eyes  for  a  while,  then 
opened  them.  Strange  how  the  vision  persisted ! 
Yet  not  strange.  He  knew  there  were  no  seas  or 
ships  in  the  heart  of  the  barren  lands,  just  as  he  had 
known  there  was  no  cartridge  in  the  empty  rifle. 

He  heard  a  snuffle  behind  him  —  a  half-choking  f 
gasp    or   cough.     Very   slowly,    because   of  his    ex 
ceeding  weakness   and  stiffness,   he   rolled  over  on v 
his  other  side.     He  could  see  nothing  near  at  hand, 
but   he  waited   patiently.     Again   came  the  snuffle 
and  cough,  and  outlined  between  two  jagged  rocks 
not  a  score  of  feet  away  he  made  out  the  gray  head 
of  a   wolf.     The   sharp   ears   were   not   pricked   so 
sharply  as  he  had  seen  them  on  other  wolves;    the  - 
eyes  were  bleared  and  bloodshot,  the  head  seemed 
to  droop  limply  and  forlornly.     The  animal  blinked 
continually   in   the   sunshine.     It   seemed   sick.     As 
he  looked  it  snuffled  and  coughed  again. 

This,  at  least,  was  real,  he  thought,  and  turned 
on  the  other  side  so  that  he  might  see  the  reality 


LOVE   OF   LIFE  31 

of  the  world  which  had  been  veiled  from  him  before 
by  the  vision.  But  the  sea  still  shone  in  the  distance 
and  the  ship  was  plainly  discernible.  Was  it  reality, 
after  all  ?  He  closed  his  eyes  for  a  long  while  and 
thought,  and  then  it  came  to  him.  He  had  been 
making  north  by  east,  away  from  the  Dease  Divide 
and  into  the  Coppermine  Valley.  This  wide  and 
sluggish  river  was  the  Coppermine.  That  shining 
sea  was  the  Arctic  Ocean.  That  ship  was  a  whaler, 
strayed  east,  far  east,  from  the  mouth  of  the  Mac 
kenzie,  and  it  was  lying  at  anchor  in  Coronation 
Gulf.  He  remembered  the  Hudson  Bay  Company 
.chart  he  had  seen  long  ago,  and  it  was  all  clear  and 
reasonable  to  him. 

He  sat  up  and  turned  his  attention  to  immediate 
affairs.  He  had  worn  through  the  blanket-wrap 
pings,  and  his  feet  were  shapeless  lumps  of  raw 
*meat.  His  last  blanket  was  gone.  Rifle  and  knife 
were  both  missing.  He  had  lost  his  hat  somewhere, 
with  the  bunch  of  matches  in  the  band,  but  the 
matches  against  his  chest  were  safe  and  dry  inside 
the  tobacco  pouch  and  oil  paper.  He  looked  at 
his  watch.  It  marked  eleven  o'clock  and  was  still 
running.  Evidently  he  had  kept  it  wound. 


32  LOVE   OF   LIFE 

He  was  calm  and  collected.  Though  extremely 
weak,  he  had  no  sensation  of  pain.  He  was  not 
hungry.  The  thought  of  food  was  not  even  pleas 
ant  to  him,  and  whatever  he  did  was  done  by  his 
reason  alone.  He  ripped  oft  his  pants'  legs  to  the 
knees  and  bound  them  about  his  feet.  Somehow 
he  had  succeeded  in  retaining  the  tin  bucket.  He 
would  have  some  hot  water  before  he  began  what 
he  foresaw  was  to  be  a  terrible  journey  to  the  ship. 

His  movements  were  slow.  He  shook  as  with  a 
palsy.  When  he  started  to  collect  dry  moss,  he 
found  he  could  not  rise  to  his  feet.  He  tried  again 
and  again,  then  contented  himself  with  crawling 
about  on  hands  and  knees.  Once  he  crawled  near 
to  the  sick  wolf.  The  animal  dragged  itself  re 
luctantly  out  of  his  way,  licking  its  chops  with  a 
tongue  which  seemed  hardly  to  have  the  strength 
to  curl.  The  man  noticed  that  the  tongue  was 
not  the  customary  healthy  red.  It  was  a  yellowish 
brown  and  seemed  coated  with  a  rough  and  half- 
dry  mucus. 

After  he  had  drunk  a  quart  of  hot  water  the  man 
found  he  was  able  to  stand,  and  even  to  walk  as 
well  as  a  dying  man  might  be 'supposed  to  walk. 


LOVE   OF   LIFE  33 

Every  minute  or  so  he  was  compelled  to  rest.  His 
steps  were  feeble  and  uncertain,  just  as  the  wolFs 
that  trailed  him  were  feeble  and  uncertain;  and 
that  night,  when  the  shining  sea  was  blotted  out  by 
blackness,  he  knew  he  was  nearer  to  it  by  no  more 
than  four  miles. 

Throughout  the  night  he  heard  the  cough  of  the 
sick  wolf,  and  now  and  then  the  squawking  of  the 
caribou  calves.  There  was  life  all  around  him,  but 
it  was  strong  life,  very  much  alive  and  well,  and  he 
knew  the  sick  wolf  clung  to  the  sick  man's  trail 
in  the  hope  that  the  man  would  die  first.  In  the 
morning,  on  opening  his  eyes,  he  beheld  it  re 
garding  him  with  a  wistful  and  hungry  stare.  It 
stood  crouched,  with  tail  between  its  legs,  like  a 
miserable  and  woe-begone  dog.  It  shivered  in  the 
chill  morning  wind,  and  grinned  dispiritedly  when 
the  man  spoke  to  it  in  a  voice  that  achieved  no 
more  than  a  hoarse  whisper. 

The  sun  rose  brightly,  and  all  morning  the  man 
tottered  and  fell  toward  the  ship  on  the  shining 
sea.  The  weather  was  perfect.  It  was  the  brief 
Indian  Summer  of  the  high  latitudes.  It  might  last 
a  week.  To-morrow  or  next  day  it  might  be  gone. 


34  LOVE   OF   LIFE 

In  the  afternoon  the  man  came  upon  a  trail.  It 
was  of  another  man,  who  did  not  walk,  but  who 
dragged  himself  on  all  fours.  The  man  thought 
it  might  be  Bill,  but  he  thought  in  a  dull,  unin 
terested  way.  He  had  no  curiosity.  In  fact,  sensa 
tion  and  emotion  had  left  him.  He  was  no  longer 
susceptible  to  pain.  Stomach  and  nerves  had  gone 
to  sleep.  Yet  the  life  that  was  in  him  drove  him 
on.  He  was  very  weary,  but  it  refused  to  die.  It 
was  because  it  refused  to  die  that  he  still  ate  muskeg 
berries  and  minnows,  drank  his  hot  water,  and  kept 
a  wary  eye  on  the  sick  wolf. 

He  followed  the  trail  of  the  other  man  who  dragged 
himself  along,  and  soon  came  to  the  end  of  it  —  a 
few  fresh-picked  bones  where  the  soggy  moss  was 
marked  by  the  foot-pads  of  many  wolves.  He  saw 
a  squat  moose-hide  sack,  mate  to  his  own,  which 
had  been  torn  by  sharp  teeth.  He  picked  it  up, 
though  its  weight  was  almost  too  much  for  his  feeble 
fingers.  Bill  had  carried  it  to  the  last.  Ha !  ha ! 
He  would  have  the  laugh  on  Bill.  He  would  survive 
and  carry  it  to  the  ship  in  the  shining  sea.  His 
mirth  was  hoarse  and  ghastly,  like  a  raven's  croak, 
and  the  sick  wolf  joined  him,  howling  lugubriously. 


LOVE   OF   LIFE  35 

The  man  ceased  suddenly.  How  could  he  have 
the  laugh  on  Bill  if  that  were  Bill;  if  those  bones, 
so  pinky-white  and  clean,  were  Bill  ? 

He  turned  away.  Well,  Bill  had  deserted  him; 
but  he  would  not  take  the  gold,  nor  would  he  suck 
Bill's  bones.  Bill  would  have,  though,  had  it  been 
the  other  way  around,  he  mused  as  he  staggered  on. 

He  came  to  a  pool  of  water.  Stooping  over  in 
quest  of  minnows,  he  jerked  his  head  back  as 
though  he  had  been  stung.  He  had  caught  sight 
.  of  his  reflected  face.  So  horrible  was  it  that  sensi 
bility  awoke  long  enough  to  be  shocked.  There 
were  three  minnows  in  the  pool,  which  was  too 
large  to  drain ;  and  after  several  ineffectual  attempts 
to  catch  them  in  the  tin  bucket  he  forbore.  He  was 
afraid,  because  of  his  great  weakness,  that  he  might 
fall  in  and  drown.  It  was  for  this  reason  that  he 
did  not  trust  himself  to  the  river  astride  one  of  the 
many  drift-logs  which  lined  its  sand-spits. 

That  day  he  decreased  the  distance  between  him 
and  the  ship  by  three  miles;  the  next  day  by  two 
—  for  he  was  crawling  now  as  Bill  had  crawled ; 
and  the  end  of  the  fifth  day  found  the  ship  still 
seven  miles  away  and  him  unable  to  make  even  a 


36  LOVE   OF  LIFE 

mile  a  day.  Still  the  Indian  Summer  held  on,  and 
he  continued  to  crawl  and  faint,  turn  and  turn  about; 
and  ever  the  sick  wolf  coughed  and  wheezed  at  his 
heels.  His  knees  had  become  raw  meat  like  his 
feet,  and  though  he  padded  them  with  the  shirt 
from  his  back  it  was  a  red  track  he  left  behind  him 
on  the  moss  and  stones.  Once,  glancing  back,  he  • 
saw  the  wolf  licking  hungrily  his  bleeding  trail,  and 
he  saw  sharply  what  his  own  end  might  be  —  unless 
—  unless  he  could  get  the  wolf.  Then  began  as 
grim  a  tragedy  of  existence  as  was  ever  played  — 
a  sick  man  that  crawled,  a  sick  wolf  that  limped, 
two  creatures  dragging  their  dying  carcasses  across 
the  desolation  and  hunting  each  other's  lives. 

Had  it  been  a  well  wolf,  it  would  not  have  mattered 
so  much  to  the  man;  but  the  thought  of  going  to 
feed  the  maw  of  that  loathsome  and  all  but  dead 
thing  was  repugnant  to  him.  He  was  finicky.  His 
mind  had  begun  to  wander  again,  and  to  be  per 
plexed  by  hallucinations,  while  his  lucid  intervals 
grew  rarer  and  shorter. 

He  was  awakened  once  from  a  faint  by  a  wheeze 
close  in  his  ear.  The  wolf  leaped  lamely  back, 
losing  its  footing  and  falling  in  its  weakness.  It 


LOVE   OF   LIFE  37 

was  ludicrous,  but  he  was  not  amused.  Nor  was 
he  even  afraid.  He  was  too  far  gone  for  that. 
But  his  mind  was  for  the  moment  clear,  and  he 
lay  and  considered.  The  ship  was  no  more  than 
four  miles  away.  He  could  see  it  quite  distinctly 
when  he  rubbed  the  mists  out  of  his  eyes,  and  he 
could  see  the  white  sail  of  a  small  boat  cutting  the 
water  of  the  shining  sea.  But  he  could  never  crawl 
those  four  miles.  He  knew  that,  and  was  very  calm 
in  the  knowledge.  He  knew  that  he  could  not  crawl 
half  a  mile.  And  yet  he  wanted  to  live.  It  was 
unreasonable  that  he  should  die  after  all  he  had 
undergone.  Fate  asked  too  much  of  him.  And, 
dying,  he  declined  to  die.  It  was  stark  madness, 
perhaps,  but  in  the  very  grip  of  Death  he  defied 
Death  and  refused  to  die. 

He  closed  his  eyes  and  composed  himself  with 
infinite  precaution.  He  steeled  himself  to  keep 
above  the  suffocating  languor  that  lapped  like  a 
rising  tide  through  all  the  wells  of  his  being.  It 
was  very  like  a  sea,  this  deadly  languor,  that  rose 
and  rose  and  drowned  his  consciousness  bit  by  bit. 
Sometimes  he  was  all  but  submerged,  swimming 
through  oblivion  with  a  faltering  stroke;  and  again, 


38  LOVE   OF   LIFE 

by  some  strange  alchemy  of  soul,  he  would  find  an 
other  shred  of  will  and  strike  out  more  strongly. 

Without  movement  he  lay  on  his  back,  and  he 
could  hear,  slowly  drawing  near  and  nearer,  the 
wheezing  intake  and  output  of  the  sick  wolfs  breath. 
It  drew  closer,  ever  closer,  through  an  infinitude  of 
time,  and  he  did  not  move.  It  was  at  his  ear.  The 
harsh  dry  tongue  grated  like  sandpaper  against  his 
cheek.  His  hands  shot  out  —  or  at  least  he  willed 
them  to  shoot  out.  The  fingers  were  curved  like 
talons,  but  they  closed  on  empty  air.  Swiftness  and 
certitude  require  strength,  and  the  man  had  not  this 
strength. 

The  patience  of  the  wolf  was  terrible.  The  man's 
patience  was  no  less  terrible.  For  half  a  day  he 
lay  motionless,  fighting  off  unconsciousness  and 
waiting  for  the  thing  that  was  to  feed  upon  him 
and  upon  which  he  wished  to  feed.  Sometimes  the 
languid  sea  rose  over  him  and  he  dreamed  long 
dreams;  but  ever  through  it  all,  Waking  and  dream 
ing,  he  waited  for  the  wheezing  breath  and  the 
harsh  caress  of  the  tongue. 

He  did  not  hear  the  breath,  and  he  slipped  slowly 
from  some  dream  to  the  feel  of  the  tongue  along  his 


LOVE   OF   LIFE  39 

hand.  He  waited.  The  fangs  pressed  softly;  the 
pressure  increased;  the  wolf  was  exerting  its  last 
strength  in  an  effort  to  sink  teeth  in  the  food  for 
which  it  had  waited  so  long.  But  the  man  had 
waited  long,  and  the  lacerated  hand  closed  on  the 
jaw.  Slowly,  while  the  wolf  struggled  feebly  and 
the  hand  clutched  feebly,  the  other  hand  crept  across 
to  a  grip.  Five  minutes  later  the  whole  weight  of 
the  man's  body  was  on  top  of  the  wolf.  The  hands 
had  not  sufficient  strength  to  choke  the  wolf,  but 
the  face  of  the  man  was  pressed  close  to  the 
throat  of  the  wolf  and  the  mouth  of  the  man 
was  full  of  hair.  At  the  end  of  half  an  hour 
the  man  was  aware  of  a  warm  trickle  in  his 
throat.  It  was  not  pleasant.  It  was  like  molten 
lead  being  forced  into  his  stomach,  and  it  was 
forced  by  his  will  alone.  Later  the  man  rolled 
over  on  his  back  and  slept. 

There  were  some  members  of  a  scientific  expedi 
tion  on  the  whale-ship  Bedford.  From  the  deck 
they  remarked  a  strange  object  on  the  shore.  It 
was  moving  down  the  beach  toward  the  water.  They 
were  unable  to  classify  it,  and,  being  scientific  men, 


40  LOVE   OF   LIFE 

they  climbed  into  the  whale-boat  alongside  and  went 
ashore  to  see.  And  they  saw  something  that  was 
alive  but  which  could  hardly  be  called  a  man.  It 
was  blind,  unconscious.  It  squirmed  along  the 
ground  like  some  monstrous  worm.  Most  of  its 
efforts  were  ineffectual,  but  it  was  persistent,  and  it 
writhed  and  twisted  and  went  ahead  perhaps  a  score 
of  feet  an  hour. 

Three  weeks  afterward  the  man  lay  in  a  bunk 
on  the  whale-ship  Bedford,  and  with  tears  streaming 
down  his  wasted  cheeks  told  who  he  was  and 
what  he  had  undergone.  He  also  babbled  inco 
herently  of  his  mother,  of  sunny  Southern  Cali 
fornia,  and  a  home  among  the  orange  groves  and 
flowers. 

The  days  were  not  many  after  that  when  he  sat 
at  table  with  the  scientific  men  and  ship's  officers. 
He  gloated  over  the  spectacle  of  so  much  food, 
watching  it  anxiously  as  it  went  into  the  mouths  of 
others.  With  the  disappearance  of  each  mouthful 
an  expression  of  deep  regret  came  into  his  eyes. 
He  was  quite  sane,  yet  he  hated  those  men  at  meal 
time.  He  was  haunted  by  a  fear  that  the  food 


i 

LOVE   OF   LIFE  41 

would  not  last.  He  inquired  of  the  cook,  the  cabin- 
boy,  the  captain,  concerning  the  food  stores.  They 
reassured  him  countless  times;  but  he  could  not 
believe  them,  and  pried  cunningly  about  the  laza- 
rette  to  see  with  his  own  eyes. 

It  was  noticed  that  the  man  was  getting  fat.  He 
grew  stouter  with  each  day.  The  scientific  men 
shook  their  heads  and  theorized.  They  limited 
the  man  at  his  meals,  but  still  his  girth  increased 
and  he  swelled  prodigiously  under  his  shirt. 

The  sailors  grinned.  They  knew.  And  when 
the  scientific  men  set  a  watch  on  the  man,  they 
knew  too.  They  saw  him  slouch  for'ard  after 
breakfast,  and,  like  a  mendicant,  with  outstretched 
palm,  accost  a  sailor.  The  sailor  grinned  and  passed 
him  a  fragment  of  sea  biscuit.  He  clutched  it 
avariciously,  looked  at  it  as  a  miser  looks  at  gold, 
and  thrust  it  into  his  shirt  bosom.  Similar  were 
the  donations  from  other  grinning  sailors. 

The  scientific  men  were  discreet.  They  let  him 
alone.  But  they  privily  examined  his  bunk.  It 
was  lined  with  hardtack;  the  mattress  was  stuffed 
with  hardtack;  every  nook  and  cranny  was  filled 
with  hardtack.  Yet  he  was  sane.  He  was  taking 


42  LOVE   OF   LIFE 

precautions  against  another  possible  famine  —  that 
was  all.  He  would  recover  from  it,  the  scientific 
men  said;  and  he  did,  ere  the  Bedford's  anchor 
rumbled  down  in  San  Francisco  Bay. 


A    DAY'S    LODGING 


A  DAY'S  LODGING 

It  was  the  gosh-dangdest  stampede  I  ever  seen.  A  thou 
sand  dog-teams  hittin'  the  ice.  You  couldn't  see  'm  f  er  smoke. 
Two  white  men  an*  a  Swede  froze  to  death  that  night,  an' 
there  was  a  dozen  busted  their  lungs.  But  didn't  I  see  with 
my  own  eyes  the  bottom  of  the  water-hole?  It  was  yellow 
with  gold  like  a  mustard-plaster.  That's  why  I  staked  the 
x;rukon  for  a  minin'  claim.  That's  what  made  the  stampede, 
/.n'  then  there  was  nothin'  to  it.  That's  what  I  said  — 
NOTHIN'  to  it.  An'  I  ain't  got  over  guessin'  yet.  —  NARRA 
TIVE  OF  SHORTY. 

JOHN  MESSNER  clung  with  mittened  hand 
to  the  bucking  gee-pole  and  held  the  sled  in 
the  trail.  With  the  other  mittened  hand  he 
rubbed  his  cheeks  and  nose.  He  rubbed  his  cheeks 
and  nose  every  little  while.  In  point  of  fact,  he 
rarely  ceased  from  rubbing  them,  and  sometimes, 
as  their  numbness  increased,  he  rubbed  fiercely. 
His  forehead  was  covered  by  the  visor  of  his  fur 
cap,  the  flaps  of  which  went  over  his  ears.  The 
rest  of  his  face  was  protected  by  a  thick  beard, 
golden-brown  under  its  coating  of  frost. 

45 


46  A   DAY'S   LODGING 

Behind  him  churned  a  heavily  loaded  Yukon  sled, 
and  before  him  toiled  a  string  of  five  dogs.  The 
rope  by  which  they  dragged  the  sled  rubbed  against 
the  side  of  Messner's  leg.  When  the  dogs  swung 
on  a  bend  in  the  trail,  he  stepped  over  the  rope. 
There  were  many  bends,  and  he  was  compelled  to 
step  over  it  often.  Sometimes  he  tripped  on  the 
rope,  or  stumbled,  and  at  all  times  he  was  awkward, 
betraying  a  weariness  so  great  that  the  sled  now 
and  again  ran  upon  his  heels. 

When  he  came  to  a  straight  piece  of  trail,  where 
the  sled  could  get  along  for  a  moment  without  guid 
ance,  he  let  go  the  gee-pole  and  batted  his  right 
hand  sharply  upon  the  hard  wood.  He  found  it 
difficult  to  keep  up  the  circulation  in  that  hand. 
But  while  he  pounded  the  one  hand,  he  never  ceased 
from  rubbing  his  nose  and  cheeks  with  the  other. 

"It's  too  cold  to  travel,  anyway,"  he  said.  He 
spoke  aloud,  after  the  manner  of  men  who  are  much 
by  themselves.  "Only  a  fool  would  travel  at  such 
a  temperature.  If  it  isn't  eighty  below,  it's  because 
it's  seventy-nine." 

He  pulled  out  his  watch,  and  after  some  fum 
bling  got  it  back  into  the  breast  pocket  of  his  thick 


A   DAY'S   LODGING  47 

woollen  jacket.  Then  he  surveyed  the  heavens  and 
ran  his  eye  along  the  white  sky-line  to  the  south. 

"Twelve  o'clock,"  he  mumbled,  "A  clear  sky, 
and  no  sun." 

He  plodded  on  silently  for  ten  minutes,  and  then, 
as  though  there  had  been  no  lapse  in  his  speech, 
he  added: 

"And  no  ground  covered,  and  it's  too  cold  to 
travel." 

Suddenly  he  yelled  "Whoa!"  at  the  dogs,  and 
stopped.  He  seemed  in  a  wild  panic  over  his  right 
hand,  and  proceeded  to  hammer  it  furiously  against 
the  gee-pole. 

"  You  —  poor  —  devils  !"  he  addressed  the  dogs, 
which  had  dropped  down  heavily  on  the  ice  to  rest. 
His  was  a  broken,  jerky  utterance,  caused  by  the 
violence  with  which  he  hammered  his  numb  hand 
upon  the  wood.  "What  have  you  done  anyway 
that  a  two-legged  other  animal  should  come  along, 
break  you  to  harness,  curb  all  your  natural  pro 
clivities,  and  make  slave-beasts  out  of  you  ?" 

He  rubbed  his  nose,  not  reflectively,  but  savagely, 
in  order  to  drive  the  blood  into  it,  and  urged  the  dogs 
to  their  work  again.  He  travelled  on  the  frozen 


48  A   DAY'S   LODGING 

surface  of  a  great  river.  Behind  him  it  stretched 
away  in  a  mighty  curve  of  many  miles,  losing  itself 
in  a  fantastic  jumble  of  mountains,  snow-covered 
and  silent.  Ahead  of  him  the  river  split  into  many 
channels  to  accommodate  the  freight  of  islands  it 
carried  on  its  breast.  These  islands  were  silent 
and  white.  No  animals  nor  humming  insects 
broke  the  silence.  No  birds  flew  in  the  chill  air. 
There  was  no  sound  of  man,  no  mark  of  the  handi 
work  of  man.  The  world  slept,  and  it  was  like 
the  sleep  of  death. 

John  Messner  seemed  succumbing  to  the  apathy 
of  it  all.  The  frost  was  benumbing  his  spirit.  He 
plodded  on  with  bowed  head,  unobservant,  mechani 
cally  rubbing  nose  and  cheeks,  and  batting  his 
steering  hand  against  the  gee-pole  in  the  straight 
trail-stretches. 

But  the  dogs  were  observant,  and  suddenly  they 
stopped,  turning  their  heads  and  looking  back  at 
their  master  out  of  eyes  that  were  wistful  and 
questioning.  Their  eyelashes  were  frosted  white,  as 
were  their  muzzles,  and  they  had  all  the  seeming 
of  decrepit  old  age,  what  of  the  frost-rime  and 
exhaustion. 


A   DAY'S   LODGING  49 

The  man  was  about  to  urge  them  on,  when  he 
checked  himself,  roused  up  with  an  effort,  and 
looked  around.  The  dogs  had  stopped  beside  a 
water-hole,  not  a  fissure,  but  a  hole  man-made, 
chopped  laboriously  with  an  axe  through  three  and 
a  half  feet  of  ice.  A  thick  skin  of  new  ice  showed 
that  it  had  not  been  used  for  some  time.  Messner 
glanced  about  him.  The  dogs  were  already  point 
ing  the  way,  each  wistful  and  hoary  muzzle  turned 
toward  the  dim  snow-path  that  left  the  main  river 
trail  and  climbed  the  bank  of  the  island. 

"All  right,  you  sore-footed  brutes,"  he  said. 
"I'll  investigate.  You're  not  a  bit  more  anxious 
to  quit  than  I  am." 

He  climbed  the  bank  and  disappeared.  The  dogs 
did  not  lie  down,  but  on  their  feet  eagerly  waited 
his  return.  He  came  back  to  them,  took  a  hauling- 
rope  from  the  front  of  the  sled,  and  put  it  around 
his  shoulders.  Then  he  gee  d  the  dogs  to  the  right 
and  put  them  at  the  bank  on  the  run.  It  was  a 
stiff  pull,  but  their  weariness  fell  from  them  as  they 
crouched  low  to  the  snow,  whining  with  eagerness 
and  gladness  as  they  struggled  upward  to  the  last 
ounce  of  effort  in  their  bodies.  When  a  dog  slipped 


50  A  DAY'S  LODGING 

or  faltered,  the  one  behind  nipped  his  hind  quarters. 
The  man  shouted  encouragement  and  threats, 
and  threw  all  his  weight  on  the  hauling-rope. 

They  cleared  the  bank  with  a  rush,  swung  to  the 
left,  and  dashed  up  to  a  small  log  cabin.  It  was  a 
deserted  cabin  of  a  single  room,  eight  feet  by  ten 
on  the  inside.  Messner  unharnessed  the  animals, 
unloaded  his  sled  and  took  possession.  The  last 
chance  wayfarer  had  left  a  supply  of  firewood. 
Messner  set  up  his  light  sheet-iron  stove  and  started 
a  fire.  He  put  five  sun-cured  salmon  into  the  oven 
to  thaw  out  for  the  dogs,  and  from  the  water-hole 
filled  his  coffee-pot  and  cooking-pail. 

While  waiting  for  the  water  to  boil,  he  held  his  face 
over  the  stove.  The  moisture  from  his  breath  had 
collected  on  his  beard  and  frozen  into  a  great  mass 
of  ice,  and  this  he  proceeded  to  thaw  out.  As  it 
melted  and  dropped  upon  the  stove  it  sizzled  and 
rose  about  him  in  steam.  He  helped  the  process 
with  his  fingers,  working  loose  small  ice-chunks 
that  fell  rattling  to  the  floor. 

A  wild  outcry  from  the  dogs  without  did  not  take 
him  from  his  task.  He  heard  the  wolfish  snarling 
and  yelping  of  strange  dogs  and  the  sound  of  voices. 
A  knock  came  on  the  door. 


A   DAY'S   LODGING  51 

"Come  in,"  Messner  called,  in  a  voice  muffled 
because  at  the  moment  he  was  sucking  loose  a 
fragment  of  ice  from  its  anchorage  on  his  upper 

HP. 

The  door  opened,  and,  gazing  out  of  his  cloud 
of  steam,  he  saw  a  man  and  a  woman  pausing  on 
the  threshold. 

"Come  in,"  he  said  peremptorily,  "and  shut  the 
door!" 

Peering  through  the  steam,  he  could  make  out 
but  little  of  their  personal  appearance.  The  nose 
and  cheek  strap  worn  by  the  woman  and  the  trail- 
wrappings  about  her  head  allowed  only  a  pair  of 
black  eyes  to  be  seen.  The  man  was  dark-eyed 
and  smooth-shaven  all  except  his  mustache,  which 
was  so  iced  up  as  to  hide  his  mouth. 

"We  just  wanted  to  know  if  there  is  any  other 
cabin  around  here,"  he  said,  at  the  same  time  glanc 
ing  over  the  unfurnished  state  of  the  room.  "We 
thought  this  cabin  was  empty." 

"It  isn't  my  cabin,"  Messner  answered.  "I 
just  found  it  a  few  minutes  ago.  Come  right  in 
and  camp.  Plenty  of  room,  and  you  won't  need 
your  stove.  There's  room  for  all." 


52  A   DAY'S   LODGING 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice  the  woman  peered  at 
him  with  quick  curiousness. 

"  Get  your  things  off,"  her  companion  said  to  her. 
"I'll  unhitch  and  get  the  water  so  we  can  start 
cooking." 

Messner  took  the  thawed  salmon  outside  and 
fed  his  dogs.  He  had  to  guard  them  against  the 
second  team  of  dogs,  and  when  he  had  reentered 
the  cabin  the  other  man  had  unpacked  the  sled 
and  fetched  water.  Messner's  pot  was  boiling. 
He  threw  in  the  coffee,  settled  it  with  half  a  cup  of 
cold  water,  and  took  the  pot  from  the  stove.  He 
thawed  some  sour-dough  biscuits  in  the  oven,  at 
the  same  time  heating  a  pot  of  beans  he  had  boiled 
the  night  before  and  that  had  ridden  frozen  on  the 
sled  all  morning. 

Removing  his  utensils  from  the  stove,  so  as  to 
give  the  newcomers  a  chance  to  cook,  he  proceeded 
to  take  his  meal  from  the  top  of  his  grub-box,  himself 
sitting  on  his  bed-roll.  Between  mouthfuls  he  talked 
trail  and  dogs  with  the  man,  who,  with  head  over 
the  stove,  was  thawing  the  ice  from  his  mustache. 
There  were  two  bunks  in  the  cabin,  and  into  one 
of  them,  when  he  had  cleared  his  lip,  the  stranger 
tossed  his  bed-roll. 


A   DAY'S   LODGING  53 

"We'll  sleep  here,"  he  said,  "unless  you  prefer 
this  bunk.  You're  the  first  comer  and  you  have 
first  choice,  you  know." 

"That's  all  right,"  Messner  answered.  "One 
bunk's  just  as  good  as  the  other." 

He  spread  his  own  bedding  in  the  second  bunk, 
and  sat  down  on  the  edge.  The  stranger  thrust  a 
physician's  small  travelling  case  under  his  blankets 
at  one  end  to  serve  for  a  pillow. 

"Doctor?"  Messner  asked. 

"Yes,"  came  the  answer,  "but  I  assure  you  I 
didn't  come  into  the  Klondike  to  practise." 

The  woman  busied  herself  with  cooking,  while 
the  man  sliced  bacon  and  fired  the  stove.  The 
light  in  the  cabin  was  dim,  filtering  through  in  a 
small  window  made  of  onion-skin  writing  paper 
and  oiled  with  bacon  grease,  so  that  John  Messner 
could  not  make  out  very  well  what  the  woman  looked 
like.  Not  that  he  tried.  He  seemed  to  have  no 
interest  in  her.  But  she  glanced  curiously  from 
time  to  time  into  the  dark  corner  where  he  sat. 

"Oh,  it's  a  great  life,"  the  doctor  proclaimed 
enthusiastically,  pausing  from  sharpening  his  knife 
on  the  stovepipe.  "What  I  like  about  it  is  the 


54  A   DAY'S   LODGING 

struggle,  the  endeavor  with  one's  own  hands,  the 
primitiveness  of  it,  the  realness." 

"The  temperature  is  real  enough,"  Messner 
laughed. 

"Do  you  know  how  cold  it  actually  is  ?"  the  doc 
tor  demanded. 

The  other  shook  his  head. 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you.  Seventy-four  below  zero  by 
spirit  thermometer  on  the  sled." 

"That's  one  hundred  and  six  below  freezing 
point  —  too  cold  for  travelling,  eh?" 

"Practically  suicide,"  was  the  doctor's  verdict. 
"One  exerts  himself.  He  breathes  heavily,  taking 
into  his  lungs  the  frost  itself.  It  chills  his  lungs, 
freezes  the  edges  of  the  tissues.  He  gets  a  dry, 
hacking  cough  as  the  dead  tissue  sloughs  away, 
and  dies  the  following  summer  of  pneumonia,  won 
dering  what  it's  all  about.  I'll  stay  in  this  cabin 
for  a  week,  unless  the  thermometer  rises  at  least 
to  fifty  below." 

"I  say,  Tess,"  he  said,  the  next  moment,  "don't 
you  think  that  coffee's  boiled  long  enough!" 

At  the  sound  of  the  woman's  name,  John  Mess 
ner  became  suddenly  alert.  He  looked  at  her 


A   DAY'S   LODGING  55 

quickly,  while  across  his  face  shot  a  haunting  ex 
pression,  the  ghost  of  some  buried  misery  achieving 
swift  resurrection.  But  the  next  moment,  and  by 
an  effort  of  will,  the  ghost  was  laid  again.  His 
face  was  as  placid  as  before,  though  he  was  still 
alert,  dissatisfied  with  what  the  feeble  light  had 
shown  him  of  the  woman's  face. 

Automatically,  her  first  act  had  been  to  set  the 
coffee-pot  back.  It  was  not  until  she  had  done  this 
that  she  glanced  at  Messner.  But  already  he  had 
composed  himself.  She  saw  only  a  man  sitting  on 
the  edge  of  the  bunk  and  incuriously  studying  the 
toes  of  his  moccasins.  But,  as  she  turned  casually 
to  go  about  her  cooking,  he  shot  another  swift  look 
at  her,  and  she,  glancing  as  swiftly  back,  caught  his 
look.  He  shifted  on  past  her  to  the  doctor,  though 
the  slightest  smile  curled  his  lip  in  appreciation  of 
the  way  she  had  trapped  him. 

She  drew  a  candle  from  the  grub-box  and  lighted 
it.  One  look  at  her  illuminated  face  was  enough 
for  Messner.  In  the  small  cabin  the  widest  limit 
was  only  a  matter  of  several  steps,  and  the  next 
moment  she  was  alongside  of  him.  She  deliberately 
held  the  candle  close  to  his  face  and  stared  at  him 


56  A   DAY'S   LODGING 

out  of  eyes  wide  with  fear  and  recognition.  He 
smiled  quietly  back  at  her. 

"What  are  you  looking  for,  Tess  ?"  the  doctor 
called. 

"Hairpins,"  she  replied,  passing  on  and  rummag 
ing  in  a  clothes-bag  on  the  bunk. 

They  served  their  meal  on  their  grub-box,  sitting 
on  Messner's  grub-box  and  facing  him.  He  had 
stretched  out  on  his  bunk  to  rest,  lying  on  his 
side,  his  head  on  his  arm.  In  the  close  quarters 
it  was  as  though  the  three  were  together  at 
table. 

"What  part  of  the  States  do  you  come  from?" 
Messner  asked. 

"San  Francisco,"  answered  the  doctor.  "I've 
been  in  here  two  years,  though." 

"I  hail  from  California  myself,"  was  Messner's 
announcement. 

The  woman  looked  at  him  appealingly,  but  he 
smiled  and  went  on : 

"Berkeley,  you  know." 

The  other  man  was  becoming  interested. 

"U.    C.  ?"   he   asked. 

"Yes,  Class  of  '86." 


A   DAY'S   LODGING  57 

"I  meant  faculty,"  the  doctor  explained.  "You 
remind  me  of  the  type." 

"Sorry  to  hear  you  say  so,"  Messner  smiled  back. 
"I'd  prefer  being  taken  for  a  prospector  or  a  dog- 
musher." 

"I  don't  think  he  looks  any  more  like  a  professor 
than  you  do  a  doctor,"  the  woman  broke  in. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Messner.  Then,  turning  to 
her  companion,  "  By  the  way,  Doctor,  what  is  your 
name,  if  I  may  ask?" 

"Haythorne,  if  you'll  take  my  word  for  it.  I 
gave  up  cards  with  civilization." 

"And  Mrs.  Haythorne,"  Messner  smiled  and 
bowed. 

She  flashed  a  look  at  him  that  was  more  anger 
than  appeal. 

Haythorne  was  about  to  ask  the  other's  name. 
His  mouth  had  opened  to  form  the  question  when 
Messner  cut  him  off. 

"Come  to  think  of  it,  Doctor,  you  may  possibly 
be  able  to  satisfy  my  curiosity.     There  was  a  sort 
of  scandal  in  faculty  circles  some  two  or  three  years 
ago.     The  wife  of  one  of  the  English  professors  - 
er,  if  you  will  pardon  me,  Mrs.  Haythorne  —  dis- 


58  A   DAY'S   LODGING 

appeared  with  some  San  Francisco  doctor,  I  under 
stood,  though  his  name  does  not  just  now  come  to 
my  lips.  Do  you  remember  the  incident?" 

Haythorne  nodded  his  head.  "Made  quite  a 
stir  at  the  time.  His  name  was  Womble  —  Graham 
Womble.  He  had  a  magnificent  practice.  I  knew 
him  somewhat." 

"Well,  what  I  was  trying  to  get  at  was  what  had 
become  of  them.  I  was  wondering  if  you  had 
heard.  They  left  no  trace,  hide  nor  hair." 

"He  covered  his  tracks  cunningly."  Haythorne 
cleared  his  throat.  "There  was  rumor  that  they 
went  to  the  South  Seas  —  were  lost  on  a  trading 
schooner  in  a  typhoon,  or  something  like  that." 

"I  never  heard  that,"  Messner  said.  "You  re 
member  the  case,  Mrs.  Haythorne?" 

"Perfectly,"  she  answered,  in  a  voice  the  control 
of  which  was  in  amazing  contrast  to  the  anger  that 
blazed  in  the  face  she  turned  aside  so  that  Hay 
thorne  might  not  see. 

The  latter  was  again  on  the  verge  of  asking  his 
name,  when  Messner  remarked : 

"This  Dr.  Womble,  I've  heard  he  was  very 
handsome,  and  —  er  —  quite  a  success,  so  to  say, 
with  the  ladies." 


A   DAY'S   LODGING  59 

"Well,  if  he  was,  he  finished  himself  off  by  that 
affair,"  Haythorne  grumbled. 

"And  the  woman  was  a  termagant  —  at  least 
so  I've  been  told.  It  was  generally  accepted  in 
Berkeley  that  she  made  life  —  er  —  not  exactly  para 
dise  for  her  husband." 

"I  never  heard  that,"  Haythorne  rejoined.  "In 
San  Francisco  the  talk  was  all  the  other  way." 

"Woman  sort  of  a  martyr,  eh?  —  crucified  on 
the  cross  of  matrimony  ?" 

The  doctor  nodded.  Messner's  gray  eyes  were 
mildly  curious  as  he  went  on  : 

"That  was  to  be  expected  —  two  sides  to  the 
shield.  Living  in  Berkeley  I  only  got  the  one  side. 
She  was  a  great  deal  in  San  Francisco,  it  seems." 

"Some  coffee,  please,"  Haythorne  said. 

The  woman  refilled  his  mug,  at  the  same  time 
breaking  into  light  laughter. 

"You're  gossiping  like  a  pair  of  beldames,"  she 
chided  them. 

"It's  so  interesting,"  Messner  smiled  at  her,  then 
returned  to  the  doctor.  "The  husband  seems  then 
to  have  had  a  not  very  savory  reputation  in  San 
Francisco  ?" 


60  A    DAY'S   LODGING 

"On  the  contrary,  he  was  a  moral  prig,"  Hay- 
thorne  blurted  out,  with  apparently  undue  warmth. 
"He  was  a  little  scholastic  shrimp  without  a  drop 
of  red  blood  in  his  body." 

"Did  you  know  him?" 

"Never  laid  eyes  on  him.  I  never  knocked  about 
in  university  circles." 

"One  side  of  the  shield  again,"  Messner  said, 
with  an  air  of  weighing  the  matter  judicially. 
"While  he  did  not  amount  to  much,  it  is  true  — 
that  is,  physically  —  I'd  hardly  say  he  was  as  bad 
as  all  that.  He  did  take  an  active  interest  in  stu 
dent  athletics.  And  he  had  some  talent.  He  once 
wrote  a  Nativity  play  that  brought  him  quite  a  bit 
of  local  appreciation.  I  have  heard,  also,  that  he 
was  slated  for  the  head  of  the  English  department, 
only  the  affair  happened  and  he  resigned  and  went 
away.  It  quite  broke  his  career,  or  so  it  seemed. 
At  any  rate,  on  our  side  the  shield,  it  was  considered 
a  knock-out  blow  to  him.  It  was  thought  he  cared 
a  great  deal  for  his  wife." 

Haythorne,  finishing  his  mug  of  coffee,  grunted 
uninterestedly  and  lighted  his  pipe. 

"It  was  fortunate  they  had  no  children,"  Mess 
ner  continued. 


A   DAY'S   LODGING  61 

But  Haythorne,  with  a  glance  at  the  stove,  pulled 
on  his  cap  and  mittens. 

"Fm  going  out  to  get  some  wood/'  he  said. 
"Then  I  can  take  off  my  moccasins  and  be  com 
fortable." 

The  door  slammed  behind  him.  For  a  long 
minute  there  was  silence.  The  man  continued  in 
the  same  position  on  the  bed.  The  woman  sat  on 
the  grub-box,  facing  him. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  ?"  she  asked  abruptly. 

Messner  looked  at  her  with  lazy  indecision. 
"What  do  you  think  I  ought  to  do?  Nothing 
scenic,  I  hope.  You  see  I  am  stiff  and  trail-sore, 
and  this  bunk  is  so  restful." 

She  gnawed  her  lower  lip  and  fumed  dumbly. 

"  But  -  '  she  began  vehemently,  then  clenched 
her  hands  and  stopped. 

"  I  hope  you  don't  want  me  to  kill  Mr.  —  er  - 
Haythorne,"    he    said    gently,    almost    pleadingly. 
"It  would  be  most  distressing,  and,  I   assure  you, 
really  it  is  unnecessary." 

"But  you  must  do  something,"  she  cried. 

"On  the  contrary,  it  is  quite  conceivable  that  I 
do  not  have  to  do  anything." 


62  A   DAY'S   LODGING 

"You  would   stay  here?" 

He  nodded. 

She  glanced  desperately  around  the  cabin  and  at 
the  bed  unrolled  on  the  other  bunk.  "Night  is 
coming  on.  You  can't  stop  here.  You  can't ! 
I  tell  you,  you  simply  can't!" 

"Of  course  I  can.  I  might  remind  you  that  I 
found  this  cabin  first  and  that  you  are  my  guests." 

Again  her  eyes  travelled  around  the  room,  and 
the  terror  in  them  leaped  up  at  sight  of  the  other 
bunk. 

uThen  we'll  have  to  go,"  she  announced  de 
cisively. 

"Impossible.  You  have  a  dry,  hacking  cough  — 
the  sort  Mr.  —  er  —  Haythorne  so  aptly  described. 
You've  already  slightly  chilled  your  lungs.  Be 
sides,  he  is  a  physician  and  knows.  He  would  never 
permit  it." 

uThen  what  are  you  going  to  do  ?"  she  demanded 
again,  with  a  tense,  quiet  utterance  that  boded  an 
outbreak. 

Messner  regarded  her  in  a  way  that  was  almost 
paternal,  what  of  the  profundity  of  pity  and  patience 
with  which  he  contrived  to  suffuse  it. 


A   DAY'S   LODGING  63 

"My  dear  Theresa,  as  I  told  you  before,  I  don't 
know.  I  really  haven't  thought  about  it." 

"Oh!  You  drive  me  mad!"  She  sprang  to 
her  feet,  wringing  her  hands  in  impotent  wrath. 
"You  never  used  to  be  this  way." 

"I  used  to  be  all  softness  and  gentleness,"  he 
nodded  concurrence.  "Was  that  why  you  left  me  ?" 

uYou  are  so  different,  so  dreadfully  calm.  You 
frighten  me.  I  feel  you  have  something  terrible 
planned  all  the  while.  But  whatever  you  do,  don't 
do  anything  rash.  Don't  get  excited  — " 

"I  don't  get  excited  any  more,"  he  interrupted. 
"Not  since  you  went  away." 

"You  have  improved  —  remarkably,"  she  re 
torted. 

He  smiled  acknowledgment.  "While  I  am  think 
ing  about  what  I  shall  do,  I'll  tell  you  what 
you  will  have  to  do  - —  tell  Mr.  —  er  —  Haythorne 
who  I  am.  It  may  make  our  stay  in  this  cabin 
more  —  may  I  say,  sociable?" 

"Why  have  you  followed  me  into  this  frightful 
country?"  she  asked  irrelevantly. 

"  Don't  think  I  came  here  looking  for  you,  Theresa. 
Your  vanity  shall  not  be  tickled  by  any  such  mis- 


64  A  DAY'S   LODGING 

apprehension.  Our  meeting  is  wholly  fortuitous. 
I  broke  with  the  life  academic  and  I  had  to  go 
somewhere.  To  be  honest,  I  came  into  the  Klon 
dike  because  I  thought  it  the  place  you  were  least 
liable  to  be  in." 

There  was  a  fumbling  at  the  latch,  then  the  door 
swung  in  and  Haythorne  entered  with  an  armful 
of  firewood.  At  the  first  warning,  Theresa  began 
casually  to  clear  away  the  dishes.  Haythorne  went 
out  again  after  more  wood. 

"Why  didn't  you  introduce  us  ?"  Messner  queried. 

"I'll  tell  him,"  she  replied,  with  a  toss  of  her  head. 
"Don't  think  I'm  afraid." 

"  I  never  knew  you  to  be  afraid,  very  much,  of 
anything." 

"And  I'm  not  afraid  of  confession,  either,"  she 
said,  with  softening  face  and  voice. 

"In  your  case,  I  fear,  confession  is  exploitation 
by  indirection,  profit-making  by  ruse,  self-aggrandize 
ment  at  the  expense  of  God." 

"Don't  be  literary,"  she  pouted,  with  growing 
tenderness.  "I  never  did  like  epigrammatic  dis 
cussion.  Besides,  I'm  not  afraid  to  ask  you  to 
forgive  me." 


A   DAY'S   LODGING  65 

"There  is  nothing  to  forgive,  Theresa.  I  really 
should  thank  you.  True,  at  first  I  suffered;  and 
then,  with  all  the  graciousness  of  spring,  it  dawned 
upon  me  that  I  was  happy,  very  happy.  It  was  a 
most  amazing  discovery." 

"But  what  if  I  should  return  to  you?"  she 
asked. 

"I  should"  (he  looked  at  her  whimsically)  "be 
greatly  perturbed." 

"I  am  your  wife.  You  know  you  have  never 
got  a  divorce." 

"I  see,"  he  meditated.  "I  have  been  careless. 
It  will  be  one  of  the  first  things  I  attend  to." 

She  came  over  to  his  side,  resting  her  hand  on 
his  arm.  "You  don't  want  me,  John?"  Her 
voice  was  soft  and  caressing,  her  hand  rested  like 
a  lure.  "If  I  told  you  I  had  made  a  mistake? 
If  I  told  you  that  I  was  very  unhappy  ?  —  and  I  am. 
And  I  did  make  a  mistake." 

Fear  began  to  grow  on  Messner.  He  felt  himself 
wilting  under  the  lightly  laid  hand.  The  situation 
was  slipping  away  from  him,  all  his  beautiful  calm 
ness  was  going.  She  looked  at  him  with  melting 
eyes,  and  he,  too,  seemed  all  dew  and  melting.  He 


66  A   DAY'S   LODGING 

felt  himself  on  the  edge  of  an  abyss,  powerless  to 
withstand  the  force  that  was  drawing  him  over. 

"I  am  coming  back  to  you,  John.  I  am  coming 
back  to-day  .  .  .  now." 

As  in  a  nightmare,  he  strove  under  the  hand. 
While  she  talked,  he  seemed  to  hear,  rippling  softly, 
the  song  of  the  Lorelei.  It  was  as  though,  some 
where,  a  piano  were  playing  and  the  actual  notes 
were  impinging  on  his  ear-drums. 

Suddenly  he  sprang  to  his  feet,  thrust  her  from 
him  as  her  arms  attempted  to  clasp  him,  and  re 
treated  backward  to  the  door.  He  was  in  a  panic. 

"I'll  do  something  desperate!"   he  cried. 

"I  warned  you  not  to  get  excited."  She  laughed 
mockingly,  and  went  about  washing  the  dishes. 
"Nobody  wants  you.  I  was  just  playing  with  you. 
I  am  happier  where  I  am." 

But  Messner  did  not  believe.  He  remembered 
her  facility  in  changing  front.  She  had  changed 
front  now.  It  was  exploitation  by  indirection. 
She  was  not  happy  with  the  other  man.  She  had 
discovered  her  mistake.  The  flame  of  his  ego 
flared  up  at  the  thought.  She  wanted  to  come 
back  to  him,  which  was  the  one  thing  he  did  not 


A   DAY'S   LODGING  67 

want.  Unwittingly,  his  hand  rattled  the  door- 
latch. 

"Don't  run  away,"  she  laughed.  "I  won't  bite 
you." 

"I  am  not  running  away,"  he  replied  with  child 
like  defiance,  at  the  same  time  pulling  on  his  mittens. 
"I'm  only  going  to  get  some  water." 

He  gathered  the  empty  pails  and  cooking  pots 
together  and  opened  the  door.  He  looked  back  at  her. 

"  Don't  forget  you're  to  tell  Mr.  —  er  —  Hay- 
thorne  who  I  am." 

Messner  broke  the  skin  that  had  formed  on  the 
water-hole  within  the  hour,  and  filled  his  pails. 
But  he  did  not  return  immediately  to  the  cabin. 
Leaving  the  pails  standing  in  the  trail,  he  walked 
up  and  down,  rapidly,  to  keep  from  freezing,  for 
the  frost  bit  into  the  flesh  like  fire.  His  beard  was 
white  with  his  frozen  breath  when  the  perplexed 
and  frowning  brows  relaxed  and  decision  came  into 
his  face.  He  had  made  up  his  mind  to  his  course 
of  action,  and  his  frigid  lips  and  cheeks  cracked 
into  a  chuckle  over  it.  The  pails  were  already 
skinned  over  with  young  ice  when  he  picked  them 
up  and  made  for  the  cabin. 


68  A   DAY'S   LODGING 

When  he  entered  he  found  the  other  man  wait 
ing,  standing  near  the  stove,  a  certain  stiff  awkward 
ness  and  indecision  in  his  manner.  Messner  set 
down  his  water-pails. 

"Glad  to  meet  you,  Graham  Womble,"  he  said 
in  conventional  tones,  as  though  acknowledging  an 
introduction. 

Messner  did  not  offer  his  hand.  Womble  stirred 
uneasily,  feeling  for  the  other  the  hatred  one  is 
prone  to  feel  for  one  he  has  wronged. 

"And  so  you're  the  chap,"  Messner  said  in  mar 
velling  accents.  "Well,  well.  You  see,  I  really 
am  glad  to  meet  you.  I  have  been  —  er  —  curious 
to  know  what  Theresa  found  in  you  —  where,  I 
may  say,  the  attraction  lay.  Well,  well." 

And  he  looked  the  other  up  and  down  as  a  man 
would  look  a  horse  up  and  down. 

"I  know  how  you  must  feel  about  me,"  Womble 
began. 

"Don't  mention  it,"  Messner  broke  in  with  ex 
aggerated  cordiality  of  voice  and  manner.  "Never 
mind  that.  What  I  want  to  know  is  how  do  you 
find  her  ?  Up  to  expectations  ?  Has  she  worn 
well?  Life  been  all  a  happy  dream  ever  since?" 


A   DAY'S  LODGING  69 

"Don't    be    silly/'    Theresa    interjected. 

"I  can't  help  being  natural,"  Messner  complained. 

"You  can  be  expedient  at  the  same  time,  and 
practical,"  Womble  said  sharply.  "What  we  want 
to  know  is  what  are  you  going  to  do  ?" 

Messner  made  a  well-feigned  gesture  of  helpless 
ness.  "I  really  don't  know.  It  is  one  of  those 
impossible  situations  against  which  there  can  be 
no  prevision." 

"All  three  of  us  cannot  remain  the  night  in  this 
cabin." 

Messner  nodded  affirmation. 

"Then  somebody  must  get  out." 

"That  also  is  incontrovertible,"  Messner  agreed. 
"When  three  bodies  cannot  occupy  the  same  space 
at  the  same  time,  one  must  get  out." 

"And  you're  that  one,"  Womble  announced 
grimly,.  "It's  a  ten-mile  pull  to  the  next  camp, 
but  you  can  make  it  all  right." 

"And  that's  the  first  flaw  in  your  reasoning," 
the  other  objected.  "Why,  necessarily,  should  I 
be  the  one  to  get  out?  I  found  this  cabin  first." 

"But  Tess  can't  get  out,"  Womble  explained. 
"Her  lungs  are  already  slightly  chilled." 


70  A   DAY'S   LODGING 

"I  agree  with  you.  She  can't  venture  ten  miles 
of  frost.  By  all  means  she  must  remain." 

"Then  it  is  as  I  said,"  Womble  announced  with 
finality. 

Messner  cleared  his  throat.  "Your  lungs  are 
all  right,  aren't  they?" 

"Yes,  but  what  of  it?" 

Again  the  other  cleared  his  throat  and  spoke  with 
painstaking  and  judicial  slowness.  "Why,  I  may 
say,  nothing  of  it,  except,  ah,  according  to  your  own 
reasoning,  there  is  nothing  to  prevent  your  getting 
out,  hitting  the  frost,  so  to  speak,  for  a  matter  of 
ten  miles.  You  can  make  it  all  right." 

Womble  looked  with  quick  suspicion  at  Theresa 
and  caught  in  her  eyes  a  glint  of  pleased  surprise. 

"Well?"   he   demanded   of  her. 

She  hesitated,  and  a  surge  of  anger  darkened  his 
face.  He  turned  upon  Messner. 

"  Enough  of  this.     You  can't  stop  here." 

"Yes,  I  can." 

"I  won't  let  you."  Womble  squared  his  shoulders. 
"I'm  running  things." 

"I'll  stay  anyway,"  the  other  persisted. 

'Til  put  you  out." 


A   DAY'S   LODGING  71 

"I'll  come  back." 

Womble  stopped  a  moment  to  steady  his  voice 
and  control  himself.  Then  he  spoke  slowly,  in  a 
low,  tense  voice. 

"Look  here,  Messner,  if  you  refuse  to  get  out, 
I'll  thrash  you.  This  isn't  California.  I'll  beat 
you  to  a  jelly  with  my  two  fists." 

Messner  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "If  you  do, 
I'll  call  a  miners'  meeting  and  see  you  strung  up 
to  the  nearest  tree.  As  you  said,  this  is  not  Cali 
fornia.  They're  a  simple  folk,  these  miners,  and 
all  I'll  have  to  do  will  be  to  show  them  the  marks 
of  the  beating,  tell  them  the  truth  about  you,  and 
present  my  claim  for  my  wife." 

The  woman  attempted  to  speak,  but  Womble 
turned  upon  her  fiercely. 

"You  keep  out  of  this,"  he  cried. 

In  marked  contrast  was  Messner's  "Please  don't 
intrude,  Theresa." 

What  of  her  anger  and  pent  feelings,  her  lungs 
were  irritated  into  the  dry,  hacking  cough,  and 
with  blood-suffused  face  and  one  hand  clenched 
against  her  chest,  she  waited  for  the  paroxysm  to 
pass. 


72  A   DAY'S   LODGING 

Womble  looked  gloomily  at  her,  noting  her 
cough. 

"Something  must  be  done,"  he  said.  "Yet  her 
lungs  can't  stand  the  exposure.  She  can't  travel 
till  the  temperature  rises.  And  I'm  not  going  to 
give  her  up." 

Messner  hemmed,  cleared  his  throat,  and  hemmed 
again,  semi-apologetically,  and  said,  "I  need  some 
money." 

Contempt  showed  instantly  in  Womble's  face. 
At  last,  beneath  him  in  vileness,  had  the  other  sunk 
himself. 

"  You've  got  a  fat  sack  of  dust,"  Messner  went 
on.  "I  saw  you  unload  it  from  the  sled." 

"How  much  do  you  want?"  Womble  demanded, 
with  a  contempt  in  his  voice  equal  to  that  in  his 
face. 

"I  made  an  estimate  of  the  sack,  and  I  —  ah  — 
should  say  it  weighed  about  twenty  pounds.  What 
do  you  say  we  call  it  four  thousand  ? " 

"But  it's  all  I've  got,  man!"  Womble  cried  out. 

"  You've  got  her,"  the  other  said  soothingly. 
"She  must  be  worth  it.  Think  what  I'm  giving 
up.  Surely  it  is  a  reasonable  price." 


A   DAY'S   LODGING  73 

"All  right."  Womble  rushed  across  the  floor 
to  the  gold-sack.  "Can't  put  this  deal  through 
too  quick  for  me,  you  —  you  little  worm ! " 

"Now,  there  you  err/'  was  the  smiling  rejoinder. 
"As  a  matter  of  ethics  isn't  the  man  who  gives  a 
bribe  as  bad  as  the  man  who  takes  a  bribe  ?  The 
receiver  is  as  bad  as  the  thief,  you  know;  and  you 
needn't  console  yourself  with  any  fictitious  moral 
superiority  concerning  this  little  deal." 

"To  hell  with  your  ethics!"  the  other  burst  out. 
"Come  here  and  watch  the  weighing  of  this  dust. 
I  might  cheat  you." 

And  the  woman,  leaning  against  the  bunk,  raging 
and  impotent,  watched  herself  weighed  out  in  yellow 
dust  and  nuggets  in  the  scales  erected  on  the  grub- 
box.  The  scales  were  small,  making  necessary 
many  weighings,  and  Messner  with  precise  care 
verified  each  weighing. 

"There's  too  much  silver  in  it,"  he  remarked  as 
he  tied  up  the  gold-sack.  "I  don't  think  it  will 
run  quite  sixteen  to  the  ounce.  You  got  a  trifle  the 
better  of  me,  Womble." 

He  handled  the  sack  lovingly,  and  with  due  appre 
ciation  of  its  preciousness  carried  it  out  to  his  sled. 


74  A   DAY'S   LODGING 

Returning,  he  gathered  his  pots  and  pans  together, 
packed  his  grub-box,  and  rolled  up  his  bed.  When 
the  sled  was  lashed  and  the  complaining  dogs  har 
nessed,  he  returned  into  the  cabin  for  his  mittens. 

"Good-by,  Tess,"  he  said,  standing  at  the  open 
door. 

She  turned  on  him,  struggling  for  speech  but  too 
frantic  to  word  the  passion  that  burned  in  her. 

"Good-by,    Tess,"    he    repeated    gently. 

"Beast!"   she   managed   to   articulate. 

She  turned  and  tottered  to  the  bunk,  flinging  her 
self  face  down  upon  it,  sobbing:  "You  beasts! 
You  beasts!" 

John  Messner  closed  the  door  softly  behind  him, 
and,  as  he  started  the  dogs,  looked  back  at  the  cabin 
with  a  great  relief  in  his  face.  At  the  bottom  of  the 
bank,  beside  the  water-hole,  he  halted  the  sled.  He 
worked  the  sack  of  gold  out  between  the  lashings 
and  carried  it  to  the  water-hole.  Already  a  new 
skin  of  ice  had  formed.  This  he  broke  with  his 
fist.  Untying  the  knotted  mouth  with  his  teeth, 
he  emptied  the  contents  of  the  sack  into  the  water. 
The  river  was  shallow  at  that  point,  and  two  feet 
beneath  the  surface  he  could  see  the  bottom  dull- 


A   DAY'S   LODGING  75 

yellow  in  the  fading  light.  At  the  sight  of  it,  he  spat 
into  the  hole. 

He  started  the  dogs  along  the  Yukon  trail.  Whin 
ing  spiritlessly,  they  were  reluctant  to  work.  Cling 
ing  to  the  gee-pole  with  his  right  hand  and  with  his 
left  rubbing  cheeks  and  nose,  he  stumbled  over  the 
rope  as  the  dogs  swung  on  a  bend. 

"Mush-on,  you  poor,  sore-footed  brutes!"  he 
cried.  "That's  it,  mush-on!" 


THE   WHITE   MAN'S    WAY 


THE  WHITE  MAN'S  WAY 

"  A  |  ^O  cook  by  your  fire  and  to  sleep  under 
your  roof  for  the  night,"  I  had  announced 
on  entering  old  Ebbits's  cabin;  and  he  had 
looked  at  me  blear-eyed  and  vacuous,  while  Zilla 
had  favored  me  with  a  sour  face  and  a  contemptuous 
grunt.  Zilla  was  his  wife,  and  no  more  bitter- 
tongued,  implacable  old  squaw  dwelt  on  the  Yukon. 
Nor  would  I  have  stopped  there  had  my  dogs  been 
less  tired  or  had  the  rest  of  the  village  been  inhabited. 
But  this  cabin  alone  had  I  found  occupied,  and 
in  this  cabin,  perforce,  I  took  my  shelter. 

Old  Ebbits  now  and  again  pulled  his  tangled  wits 
together,  and  hints  and  sparkles  of  intelligence 
came  and  went  in  his  eyes.  Several  times  during 
the  preparation  of  my  supper  he  even  essayed  hos 
pitable  inquiries  about  my  health,  the  condition 
and  number  of  my  dogs,  and  the  distance  I  had 
travelled  that  day.  And  each  time  Zilla  had  looked 
sourer  than  ever  and  grunted  more  contemptuously. 

79 


8o  THE   WHITE   MAN'S   WAY 

Yet  I  confess  that  there  was  no  particular  call  for 
cheerfulness  on  their  part.  There  they  crouched 
by  the  fire,  the  pair  of  them,  at  the  end  of  their 
days,  old  and  withered  and  helpless,  racked  by 
rheumatism,  bitten  by  hunger,  and  tantalized  by 
the  frying-odors  of  my  abundance  of  meat.  They 
rocked  back  and  forth  in  a  slow  and  hopeless  way, 
and  regularly,  once  every  five  minutes,  Ebbits 
emitted  a  low  groan.  It  was  not  so  much  a  groan 
of  pain,  as  of  pain-weariness.  He  was  oppressed  by 
the  weight  and  the  torment  of  this  thing  called  life, 
and  still  more  was  he  oppressed  by  the  fear  of  death. 
His  was  that  eternal  tragedy  of  the  aged,  with  whom 
the  joy  of  life  has  departed  and  the  instinct  for 
death  has  not  come. 

When  my  moose-meat  spluttered  rowdily  in  the 
frying-pan,  I  noticed  old  Ebbits's  nostrils  twitch  and 
distend  as  he  caught  the  food-scent.  He  ceased 
rocking  for  a  space  and  forgot  to  groan,  while  a 
look  of  intelligence  seemed  to  come  into  his  face. 

Zilla,  on  the  other  hand,  rocked  more  rapidly, 
and  for  the  first  time,  in  sharp  little  yelps,  voiced 
her  pain.  It  came  to  me  that  their  behavior  was 
like  that  of  hungry  dogs,  and  in  the  fitness  of  things 


THE   WHITE   MAN'S   WAY  81 

I  should  not  have  been  astonished  had  Zilla  suddenly 
developed  a  tail  and  thumped  it  on  the  floor  in  right 
doggish  fashion.  Ebbits  drooled  a  little  and  stopped 
his  rocking  very  frequently  to  lean  forward  and 
thrust  his  tremulous  nose  nearer  to  the  source  of 
gustatory  excitement. 

When  I  passed  them  each  a  plate  of  the  fried  meat, 
they  ate  greedily,  making  loud  mouth-noises  - 
champings  of  worn  teeth  and  sucking  intakes  of 
the  breath,  accompanied  by  a  continuous  splutter 
ing  and  mumbling.  After  that,  when  I  gave  them 
each  a  mug  of  scalding  tea,  the  noises  ceased.  Ease 
ment  and  content  came  into  their  faces.  Zilla  re 
laxed  her  sour  mouth  long  enough  to  sigh  her  satis 
faction.  Neither  rocked  any  more,  and  they  seemed 
to  have  fallen  into  placid  meditation.  Then  a 
dampness  came  into  Ebbits's  eyes,  and  I  knew  that 
the  sorrow  of  self-pity  was  his.  The  search  re 
quired  to  find  their  pipes  told  plainly  that  they  had 
been  without  tobacco  a  long  time,  and  the  old  man's 
eagerness  for  the  narcotic  rendered  him  helpless, 
so  that  I  was  compelled  to  light  his  pipe  for 
him. 

"Why  are  you  all  alone  in  the  village?"  I  asked. 


82  THE   WHITE   MAN'S   WAY 

"  Is  everybody  dead  ?  Has  there  been  a  great  sick 
ness  ?  Are  you  alone  left  of  the  living?" 

Old  Ebbits  shook  his  head,  saying:  "Nay,  there 
has  been  no  great  sickness.  The  village  has  gone 
away  to  hunt  meat.  We  be  too  old,  our  legs  are  not 
strong,  nor  can  our  backs  carry  the  burdens  of 
camp  and  trail.  Wherefore  we  remain  here  and 
wonder  when  the  young  men  will  return  with  meat." 

"What  if  the  young  men  do  return  with  meat?" 
Zilla  demanded  harshly. 

"They  may  return  with  much  meat,"  he  quavered 
hopefully. 

"Even  so,  with  much  meat,"  she  continued,  more 
harshly  than  before.  "But  of  what  worth  to  you 
and  me  ?  A  few  bones  to  gnaw  in  our  toothless  old 
age.  But  the  back-fat,  the  kidneys,  and  the  tongues 
-  these  shall  go  into  other  mouths  than  thine  and 
mine,  old  man." 

Ebbits  nodded  his  head  and  wept  silently. 

"There  be  no  one  to  hunt  meat  for  us,"  she  cried, 
turning  fiercely  upon  me. 

There  was  accusation  in  her  manner,  and  I  shrugged 
my  shoulders  in  token  that  I  was  not  guilty  of  the 
unknown  crime  imputed  to  me. 


THE   WHITE   MAN'S   WAY  83 

"  Know,  O  White  Man,  that  it  is  because  of  thy 
kind,  because  of  all  white  men,  that  my  man  and  I 
have  no  meat  in  our  old  age  and  sit  without  tobacco 
in  the  cold." 

"Nay,"  Ebbits  said  gravely,  with  a  stricter  sense 
of  justice.  "Wrong  has  been  done  us,  it  be  true; 
but  the  white  men  did  not  mean  the  wrong." 

"Where  be  Moklan  ?"  she  demanded.  "Where 
be  thy  strong  son,  Moklan,  and  the  fish  he  was  ever 
willing  to  bring  that  you  might  eat?" 

The  old  man  shook  his  head. 

"And  where  be  Bidarshik,  thy  strong  son  ?  Ever 
was  he  a  mighty  hunter,  and  ever  did  he  bring  thee 
the  good  back-fat  and  the  sweet  dried  tongues  of 
the  moose  and  the  caribou.  I  see  no  back-fat  and 
no  sweet  dried  tongues.  Your  stomach  is  full  with 
emptiness  through  the  days,  and  it  is  for  a  man  of 
a  very  miserable  and  lying  people  to  give  you  to  eat." 

"Nay,"  old  Ebbits  interposed  in  kindliness, 
"the  white  man's  is  not  a  lying  people.  The  white 
man  speaks  true.  Always  does  the  white  man  speak 
true."  He  paused,  casting  about  him  for  words 
wherewith  to  temper  the  severity  of  what  he  was 
about  to  say.  "But  the  white  man  speaks  true  in 


84  THE   WHITE   MAN'S   WAY 

different  ways.  To-day  he  speaks  true  one  way, 
to-morrow  he  speaks  true  another  way,  and  there 
is  no  understanding  him  nor  his  way." 

"To-day  speak  true  one  way,  to-morrow  speak 
true  another  way,  which  is  to  lie,"  was  Zilla's  dictum. 

"There  is  no  understanding  the  white  man,"Ebbits 
went  on  doggedly. 

The  meat,  and  the  tea,  and  the  tobacco  seemed 
to  have  brought  him  back  to  life,  and  he  gripped 
tighter  hold  of  the  idea  behind  his  age-bleared  eyes. 
He  straightened  up  somewhat.  His  voice  lost  its 
querulous  and  whimpering  note,  and  became  strong 
and  positive.  He  turned  upon  me  with  dignity, 
and  addressed  me  as  equal  addresses  equal. 

"The  white  man's  eyes  are  not  shut,"  he  began. 
"The  white  man  sees  all  things,  and  thinks  greatly, 
and  is  very  wise.  But  the  white  man  of  one  day  is 
not  the  white  man  of  next  day,  and  there  is  no  under 
standing  him.  He  does  not  do  things  always  in 
the  same  way.  And  -what  way  his  next  way  is  to 
be,  one  cannot  know.  Always  does  the  Indian  do 
the  one  thing  in  the  one  way.  Always  does  the 
moose  come  down  from  the  high  mountains  when 
the  winter  is  here.  •  Always  does  the  salmon  come 


THE  WHITE   MAN'S  WAY  85 

in  the  spring  when  the  ice  has  gone  out  of  the  river. 
Always  does  everything  do  all  things  in  the  same 
way,  and  the  Indian  knows  and  understands.  But 
the  white  man  does  not  do  all  things  in  the  same  way, 
and  the  Indian  does  not  know  nor  understand. 

"Tobacco  be  very  good.  It  be  food  to  the  hungry 
man.  It  makes  the  strong  man  stronger,  and  the 
angry  man  to  forget  that  he  is  angry.  Also  is 
tobacco  of  value.  It  is  of  very  great  value.  The 
Indian  gives  one  large  salmon  for  one  leaf  of  to 
bacco,  and  he  chews  the  tobacco  for  a  long  time. 
It  is  the  juice  of  the  tobacco  that  is  good. 
When  it  runs  down  his  throat  it  makes  him  feel 
good  inside.  But  the  white  man  !  When  his  mouth 
is  full  with  the  juice,  what  does  he  do  ?  That  juice, 
that  juice  of  great  value,  he  spits  it  out  in  the  snow 
and  it  is  lost.  Does  the  white  man  like  tobacco  ? 
I  do  not  know.  But  if  he  likes  tobacco,  why  does 
he  spit  out  its  value  and  lose  it  in  the  snow  ?  It  is 
a  great  foolishness  and  without  understanding." 

He  ceased,  puffed  at  the  pipe,  found  that  it  was 
out,  and  passed  it  over  to  Zilla,  who  took  the  sneer 
at  the  white  man  off  her  lips  in  order  to  pucker 
them  about  the  pipe-stem.  Ebbits  seemed  sinking 


86  THE   WHITE   MAN'S   WAY 

back  into  his  senility  with  the  tale  untold,  and  I 
demanded : 

"What  of  thy  sons,  Moklan  and  Bidarshik  ? 
And  why  is  it  that  you  and  your  old  woman  are 
without  meat  at  the  end  of  your  years  ?" 

He  roused  himself  as  from  sleep,  and  straightened 
up  with  an  effort. 

"It  is  not  good  to  steal,"  he  said.  "When  the 
dog  takes  your  meat  you  beat  the  dog  with  a  club. 
Such  is  the  law.  It  is  the  law  the  man  gave  to  the 
dog,  and  the  dog  must  live  to  the  law,  else  will  it 
suffer  the  pain  of  the  club.  When  man  takes  your 
meat,  or  your  canoe,  or  your  wife,  you  kill  that  man. 
That  is  the  law,  and  it  is  a  good  law.  It  is  not  good 
to  steal,  wherefore  it  is  the  law  that  the  man  who 
steals  must  die.  Whoso  breaks  the  law  must  suffer 
hurt.  It  is  a  great  hurt  to  die." 

"But  if  you  kill  the  man,  why  do  you  not  kill 
the  dog?"  I  asked. 

Old  Ebbits  looked  at  me  in  childlike  wonder, 
while  Zilla  sneered  openly  at  the  absurdity  of  my 
question. 

"It  is  the  way  of  the  white  man,"  Ebbits  mumbled 
with  an  air  of  resignation. 


THE   WHITE   MAN'S   WAY  87 

"It  is  the  foolishness  of  the  white  man/'  snapped 
Zilla. 

"Then  let  old  Ebbits  teach  the  white  man  wisdom," 
I  said  softly. 

"The  dog  is  not  killed,  because  it  must  pull  the 
sled  of  the  man.  No  man  pulls  another  man's 
sled,  wherefore  the  man  is  killed." 

"Oh,"  I  murmured. 

"That  is  the  law,"  old  Ebbits  went  on.  "Now 
listen,  O  White  Man,  and  I  will  tell  you  of  a  great 
foolishness.  There  is  an  Indian.  His  name  is 
Mobits.  From  white  man  he  steals  two  pounds  of 
flour.  What  does  the  white  man  do  ?  Does  he 
beat  Mobits?  No.  Does  he  kill  Mobits?  No. 
What  does  he  do  to  Mobits  ?  I  will  tell  you,  O 
White  Man.  He  has  a  house.  He  puts  Mobits 
in  that  house.  The  roof  is  good.  The  walls  are 
thick.  He  makes  a  fire  that  Mobits  may  be  warm. 
He  gives  Mobits  plenty  grub  to  eat.  It  is  good 
grub.  Never  in  his  all  days  does  Mobits  eat  so 
good  grub.  There  is  bacon,  and  bread,  and  beans 
without  end.  Mobits  have  very  good  time. 

"There  is  a  big  lock  on  door  so  that  Mobits  does 
not  run  away.  This  also  is  a  great  foolishness. 


88  THE   WHITE   MAN'S   WAY 

Mobits  will  not  run  away.  All  the  time  is  there 
plenty  grub  in  that  place,  and  warm  blankets,  and 
a  big  fire.  Very  foolish  to  run  away.  Mobits  is 
not  foolish.  Three  months  Mobits  stop  in  that 
place.  He  steal  two  pounds  of  flour.  For  that, 
white  man  take  plenty  good  care  of  him.  Mobits 
eat  many  pounds  of  flour,  many  pounds  of  sugar, 
of  bacon,  of  beans  without  end.  Also,  Mobits  drink 
much  tea.  After  three  months  white  man  open 
door  and  tell  Mobits  he  must  go.  Mobits  does  not 
want  to  go.  He  is  like  dog  that  is  fed  long  time  in 
one  place.  He  want  to  stay  in  that  place,  and  the 
white  man  must  drive  Mobits  away.  So  Mobits 
come  back  to  this  village,  and  he  is  very  fat.  That 
is  the  white  man's  way,  and  there  is  no  understand 
ing  it.  It  is  a  foolishness,  a  great  foolishness." 

"But  thy  sons?"  I  insisted.  "Thy  very  strong 
sons  and  thine  old-age  hunger?" 

"There  was  Moklan,"  Ebbits  began. 

"A  strong  man,"  interrupted  the  mother.  "He 
could  dip  paddle  all  of  a  day  and  night  and  never 
stop  for  the  need  of  rest.  He  was  wise  in  the  way 
of  the  salmon  and  in  the  way  of  the  water.  He  was 
very  wise." 


THE   WHITE   MAN'S   WAY  89 

"There  was  Moklan,"  Ebbits  repeated,  ignoring 
the  interruption.  "In  the  spring,  he  went  down 
the  Yukon  with  the  young  men  to  trade  at  Cam- 
bell  Fort.  There  is  a  post  there,  filled  with  the 
goods  of  the  white  man,  and  a  trader  whose  name 
is  Jones.  Likewise  is  there  a  white  man's  medicine 
man,  what  you  call  missionary.  Also  is  there  bad 
water  at  Cambell  Fort,  where  the  Yukon  goes  slim 
like  a  maiden,  and  the  water  is  fast,  and  the  currents 
rush  this  way  and  that  and  come  together,  and  there 
are  whirls  and  sucks,  and  always  are  the  currents 
changing  and  the  face  of  the  water  changing,  so 
at  any  two  times  it  is  never  the  same.  Moklan  is 
my  son,  wherefore  he  is  brave  man  - 

"Was  not  my  father  brave  man  ?"  Zilla  demanded. 

"Thy  father  was  brave  man,"  Ebbits  acknowl 
edged,  with  the  air  of  one  who  will  keep  peace  in  the 
house  at  any  cost.  "Moklan  is  thy  son  and  mine, 
wherefore  he  is  brave.  Mayhap,  because  of  thy 
very  brave  father,  Moklan  is  too  brave.  It  is  like 
when  too  much  water  is  put  in  the  pot  it  spills  over. 
So  too  much  bravery  is  put  into  Moklan,  and  the 
bravery  spills  over. 

"The  young  men   are   much   afraid  of  the  bad 


90  THE   WHITE   MAN'S   WAY 

water  at  Cambell  Fort.  But  Moklan  is  not  afraid. 
He  laughs  strong,  Ho !  ho !  and  he  goes  forth  into 
the  bad  water.  But  where  the  currents  come  to 
gether  the  canoe  is  turned  over.  A  whirl  takes 
Moklan  by  the  legs,  and  he  goes  around  and  around, 
and  down  and  down,  and  is  seen  no  more." 

"Ai!  ai!"  wailed  Zilla.  "Crafty  and  wise  was 
he,  and  my  first-born!" 

"I  am  the  father  of  Moklan,"  Ebbits  said,  having 
patiently  given  the  woman  space  for  her  noise.  "I 
get  into  canoe  and  journey  down  to  Cambell  Fort 
to  collect  the  debt!" 

"  Debt ! "  I  interrupted.     "  What  debt  ? " 

"The  debt  of  Jones,  who  is  chief  trader,"  came 
the  answer.  "Such  is  the  law  of  travel  in  a  strange 
country." 

I  shook  my  head  in  token  of  my  ignorance,  and 
Ebbits  looked  compassion  at  me,  while  Zilla  snorted 
her  customary  contempt. 

"Look  you,  O  White  Man,"  he  said.  "In  thy 
camp  is  a  dog  that  bites.  When  the  dog  bites  a 
man,  you  give  that  man  a  present  because  you  are 
sorry  and  because  it  is  thy  dog.  You  make  pay 
ment.  Is  it  not  so  ?  Also,  if  you  have  in  thy  country 


THE   WHITE   MAN'S   WAY  91 

bad  hunting,  or  bad  water,  you  must  make  pay 
ment.  It  is  just.  It  is  the  law.  Did  not  my  father's 
brother  go  over  into  the  Tanana  Country  and  get 
killed  by  a  bear  ?  And  did  not  the  Tanana  tribe 
pay  my  father  many  blankets  and  fine  furs  ?  It 
was  just.  It  was  bad  hunting,  and  the  Tanana 
people  made  payment  for  the  bad  hunting. 

"So  I,  Ebbits,  journeyed  down  to  Cambell  Fort 
to  collect  the  debt.  Jones,  who  is  chief  trader, 
looked  at  me,  and  he  laughed.  He  made  great 
laughter,  and  would  not  give  payment.  I  went  to 
the  medicine-man,  what  you  call  missionary,  and 
had  large  talk  about  the  bad  water  and  the  pay 
ment  that  should  be  mine.  And  the  missionary 
made  talk  about  other  things.  He  talk  about  where 
Moklan  has  gone,  now  he  is  dead.  There  be  large 
fires  in  that  place,  and  if  missionary  make  true  talk, 
I  know  that  Moklan  will  be  cold  no  more.  Also 
the  missionary  talk  about  where  I  shall  go  when  I 
am  dead.  And  he  say  bad  things.  He  say  that 
I  am  blind.  Which  is  a  lie.  He  say  that  I  am  in 
great  darkness.  Which  is  a  lie.  And  I  say  that 
the  day  come  and  the  night  come  for  everybody 
just  the  same,  and  that  in  my  village  it  is  no  more 


92  THE   WHITE   MAN'S    WAY 

dark  than  at  Cambell  Fort.  Also,  I  say  that  dark 
ness  and  light  and  where  we  go  when  we  die  be 
different  things  from  the  matter  of  payment  of  just 
debt  for  bad  water.  Then  the  missionary  make 
large  anger,  and  call  me  bad  names  of  darkness, 
and  tell  me  to  go  away.  And  so  I  come  back  from 
Cambell  Fort,  and  no  payment  has  been  made, 
and  Moklan  is  dead,  and  in  my  old  age  I  am  with 
out  fish  and  meat." 

"  Because  of  the  white  man,"  said  Zilla. 

"Because  of  the  white  man,"  Ebbits  concurred. 
11  And  other  things  because  of  the  white  man.  There 
was  Bidarshik.  One  way  did  the  white  man  deal 
with  him;  and  yet  another  way  for  the  same  thing 
did  the  white  man  deal  with  Yamikan.  And  first 
must  I  tell  you  of  Yamikan,  who  was  a  young  man 
of  this  village  and  who  chanced  to  kill  a  white  man. 
It  is  not  good  to  kill  a  man  of  another  people.  Al 
ways  is  there  great  trouble.  It  was  not  the  fault 
of  Yamikan  that  he  killed  the  white  man.  Yami 
kan  spoke  always  soft  words  and  ran  away  from 
wrath  as  a  dog  from  a  stick.  But  this  white  man 
drank  much  whiskey,  and  in  the  night-time  came  to 
Yamikan's  house  and  made  much  fight.  Yamikan 


THE   WHITE   MAN'S   WAY  93 

cannot  run  away,  and  the  white  man  tries  to  kill 
him.  Yamikan  does  not  like  to  die,  so  he  kills  the 
white  man. 

"Then  is  all  the  village  in  great  trouble.  We  are 
much  afraid  that  we  must  make  large  payment  to 
the  white  man's  people,  and  we  hide  our  blankets, 
and  our  furs,  and  all  our  wealth,  so  that  it  will  seem 
that  we  are  poor  people  and  can  make  only  small 
payment.  After  long  time  white  men  come.  They 
are  soldier  white  men,  and  they  take  Yamikan  away 
with  them.  His  mother  make  great  noise  and  throw 
ashes  in  her  hair,  for  she  knows  Yamikan  is  dead. 
And  all  the  village  knows  that  Yamikan  is  dead, 
and  is  glad  that  no  payment  is  asked. 

"That  is  in  the  spring  when  the  ice  has  gone  out 
of  the  river.  One  year  go  by,  two  years  go  by.  It 
is  spring-time  again,  and  the  ice  has  gone  out  of  the 
river.  And  then  Yamikan,  who  is  dead,  comes 
back  to  us,  and  he  is  not  dead,  but  very  fat,  and  we 
know  that  he  has  slept  warm  and  had  plenty  grub 
to  eat.  He  has  much  fine  clothes  and  is  all 
the  same  white  man,  and  he  has  gathered  large 
wisdom  so  that  he  is  very  quick  head  man  in  the 
village. 


94  THE   WHITE   MAN'S   WAY 

"And  he  has  strange  things  to  tell  of  the  way  of 
the  white  man,  for  he  has  seen  much  of  the  white 
man  and  done  a  great  travel  into  the  white  man's 
country.  First  place,  soldier  white  men  take  him 
down  the  river  long  way.  All  the  way  do  they  take 
him  down  the  river  to  the  end,  where  it  runs  into  a 
lake  which  is  larger  than  all  the  land  and  large  as 
the  sky.  I  do  not  know  the  Yukon  is  so  big  river, 
but  Yamikan  has  seen  with  his  own  eyes.  I  do  not 
think  there  is  a  lake  larger  than  all  the  land  and 
large  as  the  sky,  but  Yamikan  has  seen.  Also,  he 
has  told  me  that  the  waters  of  this  lake  be  salt,  which 
is  a  strange  thing  and  beyond  understanding. 

"But  the  White  Man  knows  all  these  marvels 
for  himself,  so  I  shall  not  weary  him  with  the  telling 
of  them.  Only  will  I  tell  him  what  happened  to 
Yamikan.  The  white  man  give  Yamikan  much 
fine  grub.  All  the  time  does  Yamikan  eat,  and  all 
the  time  is  there  plenty  more  grub.  The  white 
man  lives  under  the  sun,  so  said  Yamikan,  where 
there  be  much  warmth,  and  animals  have  only  hair 
and  no  fur,  and  the  green  things  grow  large  and 
strong  and  become  flour,  and  beans,  and  potatoes. 
And  under  the  sun  there  is  never  famine.  Always 


THE  WHITE   MAN'S  WAY  95 

is  there  plenty  grub.  I  do  not  know.  Yamikan 
has  said. 

"And  here  is  a  strange  thing  that  befell  Yamikan. 
Never  did  the  white  man  hurt  him.  Only  did  they 
give  him  warm  bed  at4  night  and  plenty  fine  grub. 
They  take  him  across  the  salt  lake  which  is  big  as 
the  sky.  He  is  on  white  man's  fire-boat,  what  you 
call  steamboat,  only  he  is  on  boat  maybe  twenty 
times  bigger  than  steamboat  on  Yukon.  Also,  it 
is  made  of  iron,  this  boat,  and  yet  does  it  not  sink. 
This  I  do  not  understand,  but  Yamikan  has  said, 
'I  have  journeyed  far  on  the  iron  boat;  behold!  I 
am  still  alive.'  It  is  a  white  man's  soldier-boat 
with  many  soldier  men  upon  it. 

"After  many  sleeps  of  travel,  a  long,  long  time, 
Yamikan  comes  to  a  land  where  there  is  no  snow. 
I  cannot  believe  this.  It  is  not  in  the  nature  of  things 
that  when  winter  comes  there  shall  be  no  snow. 
But  Yamikan  has  seen.  Also  have  I  asked  the  white 
men*  and  they  have  said  yes,  there  is  no  snow  in 
that  country.  But  I  cannot  believe,  and  now  I  ask 
you  if  snow  never  come  in  that  country.  Also,  I 
would  hear  the  name  of  that  country.  I  have  heard 
the  name  before,  but  I  would  hear  it  again,  if  it 


96  THE   WHITE   MAN'S   WAY 

be  the  same  —  thus  will  I  know  if  I  have  heard  lies 
or  true  talk." 

Old  Ebbits  regarded  me  with  a  wistful  face.  He 
would  have  the  truth  at  any  cost,  though  it  was  his 
desire  to  retain  his  faith  in  the  marvel  he  had  never 
seen. 

"Yes,"  I  answered,  "it  is  true  talk  that  you  have 
heard.  There  is  no  snow  in  that  country,  and  its 
name  is  California." 

"  Cal-ee-forn-ee-yeh,"  he  mumbled  twice  and 
thrice,  listening  intently  to  the  sound  of  the  syllables 
as  they  fell  from  his  lips.  He  nodded  his  head  in 
confirmation.  "Yes,  it  is  the  same  country  of 
which  Yamikan  made  talk." 

I  recognized  the  adventure  of  Yamikan  as  one 
likely  to  occur  in  the  early  days  when  Alaska  first 
passed  into  the  possession  of  the  United  States. 
Such  a  murder  case,  occurring  before  the  instal 
ment  of  territorial  law  and  officials,  might  well  have 
been  taken  down  to  the  United  States  for  trial  before 
a  Federal  court. 

"When  Yamikan  is  in  this  country  where  there 
is  no  snow,"  old  Ebbits  continued,  "he  is  taken  to 
large  house  where  many  men  make  much  talk. 


THE   WHITE   MAN'S   WAY  97 

Long  time  men  talk.  Also  many  questions  do  they 
ask  Yamikan.  By  and  by  they  tell  Yamikan  he 
have  no  more  trouble.  Yamikan  does  not  under 
stand,  for  never  has  he  had  any  trouble.  All  the 
time  have  they  given  him  warm  place  to  sleep  and 
plenty  grub. 

"But  after  that  they  give  him  much  better  grub, 
and  they  give  him  money,  and  they  take  him  many 
places  in  white  man's  country,  and  he  see  many 
strange  things  which  are  beyond  the  understanding 
of  Ebbits,  who  is  an  old  man  and  has  not  journeyed 
far.  After  two  years,  Yamikan  comes  back  to  this 
village,  and  he  is  head  man,  and  very  wise  until 
he  dies. 

"  But  before  he  dies,  many  times  does  he  sit  by 
my  fire  and  make  talk  of  the  strange  things  he  has 
seen.  And  Bidarshik,  who  is  my  son,  sits  by  the 
fire  and  listens ;  and  his  eyes  are  very  wide  and  large 
because  of  the  things  he  hears.  One  night,  after 
Yamikan  has  gone  home,  Bidarshik  stands  up,  so, 
very  tall,  and  he  strikes  his  chest  with  his  fist,  and 
says,  'When  I  am  a  man,  I  shall  journey  in  far  places, 
even  to  the  land  where  there  is  no  snow,  and  see 
things  for  myself.' ' 
H 


98  THE   WHITE   MAN'S   WAY 

"Always  did  Bidarshik  journey  in  far  places," 
Zilla  interrupted  proudly. 

"It  be  true,"  Ebbits  assented  gravely.  "And 
always  did  he  return  to  sit  by  the  fire  and  hunger 
for  yet  other  and  unknown  far  places." 

"And  always  did  he  remember  the  salt  lake  as 
big  as  the  sky  and  the  country  under  the  sun  where 
there  is  no  snow,"  quoth  Zilla. 

"And  always  did  he  say,  'When  I  have  the  full 
strength  of  a  man,  I  will  go  and  see  for  myself  if  the 
talk  of  Yamikan  be  true  talk,'"  said  Ebbits. 

"  But  there  was  no  way  to  go  to  the  white  man's 
country,"  said  Zilla. 

"Did  he  not  go  down  to  the  salt  lake  that  is  big 
as  the  sky?"  Ebbits  demanded. 

"And  there  was  no  way  for  him  across  the  salt 
lake,"  said  Zilla. 

"Save  in  the  white  man's  fire-boat  which  is  of 
iron  and  is  bigger  than  twenty  steamboats  on  the 
Yukon,"  said  Ebbits.  He  scowled  at  Zilla,  whose 
withered  lips  were  again  writhing  into  speech,  and 
compelled  her  to  silence.  "But  the  white  man 
would  not  let  him  cross  the  salt  lake  in  the  fire- 
boat,  and  he  returned  to  sit  by  the  fire  and  hunger 


THE   WHITE   MAN'S  WAY  99 

for  the   country  under  the  sun  where  there   is  no 


snow." 


"Yet  on  the  salt  lake  had  he  seen  the  fire-boat  of 
iron  that  did  not  sink,"  cried  out  Zilla  the  irrepres 
sible. 

"Ay,"  said  Ebbits,  "and  he  saw  that  Yamikan 
had  made  true  talk  of  the  things  he  had  seen.  But 
there  was  no  way  for  Bidarshik  to  journey  to  the 
white  man's  land  under  the  sun,  and  he  grew  sick 
and  weary  like  an  old  man  and  moved  not  away 
from  the  fire.  No  longer  did  he  go  forth  to  kill 
meat  —  " 

"And  no  longer  did  he  eat  the  meat  placed  before 
him,"  Zilla  broke  in.  "He  would  shake  his  head 
and  say,  '  Only  do  I  care  to  eat  the  grub  of  the  white 
man  and  grow  fat  after  the  manner  of  Yamikan." 

"And  he  did  not  eat  the  meat,"  Ebbits  went  on. 
"And  the  sickness  of  Bidarshik  grew  into  a  great 
sickness  until  I  thought  he  would  die.  It  was  not 
a  sickness  of  the  body,  but  of  the  head.  It  was  a 
sickness  of  desire.  I,  Ebbits,  who  am  his  father, 
make  a  great  think.  I  have  no  more  sons  and  I  do 
not  want  Bidarshik  to  die.  It  is  a  head-sickness, 
and  there  is  but  one  way  to  make  it  well.  Bidar- 


ioo  THE   WHITE   MAN'S   WAY 

shik  must  journey  across  the  lake  as  large  as  the 
sky  to  the  land  where  there  is  no  snow,  else  will  he 
die.  I  make  a  very  great  think,  and  then  I  see  the 
way  for  Bidarshik  to  go. 

"So,  one  night  when  he  sits  by  the  fire,  very  sick, 
his  head  hanging  down,  I  say,  'My  son,  I  have 
learned  the  way  for  you  to  go  to  the  white  man's 
land/  He  looks  at  me,  and  his  face  is  glad.  'Go,' 
I  say,  'even  as  Yamikan  went.'  But  Bidarshik  is 
sick  and  does  not  understand.  'Go  forth,'  I  say, 
'and  find  a  white  man,  and,  even  as  Yamikan,  do 
you  kill  that  white  man.  Then  will  the  soldier 
white  men  come  and  get  you,  and  even  as  they  took 
Yamikan  will  they  take  you  across  the  salt  lake  to 
the  white  man's  land.  And  then,  even  as  Yamikan, 
will  you  return  very  fat,  your  eyes  full  of  the  things 
you  have  seen,  your  head  filled  with  wisdom.' 

"And  Bidarshik  stands  up  very  quick,  and  his 
hand  is  reaching  out  for  his  gun.  'Where  do  you 
go?'  I  ask.  'To  kill  the  white  man,'  he  says.  And 
I  see  that  my  words  have  been  good  in  the  ears  of 
Bidarshik  and  that  he  will  grow  well  again.  Also 
do  I  know  that  my  words  have  been  wise. 

"There  is  a  white  man  come  to  this  village.     He 


THE   WHITE   MAN'S   WAY  101 

does  not  seek  after  gold  in  the  ground,  nor  after 
furs  in  the  forest.  All  the  time  does  he  seek  after 
bugs  and  flies.  He  does  not  eat  the  bugs  and  flies, 
then  why  does  he  seek  after  them  ?  I  do  not  know. 
Only  do  I  know  that  he  is  a  funny  white  man.  Also 
does  he  seek  after  the  eggs  of  birds.  He  does  not 
eat  the  eggs.  All  that  is  inside  he  takes  out,  and  only 
does  he  keep  the  shell.  Eggshell  is  not  good  to 
eat.  Nor  does  he  eat  the  eggshells,  but  puts  them 
away  in  soft  boxes  where  they  will  not  break.  He 
catch  many  small  birds.  But  he  does  not  eat  the 
birds.  He  takes  only  the  skins  and  puts  them  away 
in  boxes.  Also  does  he  like  bones.  Bones  are  not 
good  to  eat.  And  this  strange  white  man  likes 
best  the  bones  of  long  time  ago  which  he  digs  out  of 
the  ground. 

"But  he  is  not  a  fierce  white  man,  and  I  know 
he  will  die  very  easy;  so  I  say  to  Bidarshik,  'My  son, 
there  is  the  white  man  for  you  to  kill.'  And  Bidar 
shik  says  that  my  words  be  wise.  So  he  goes  to  a 
place  he  knows  where  are  many  bones  in  the  ground. 
He  digs  up  very  many  of  these  bones  and  brings 
them  to  the  strange  white  man's  camp.  The  white 
man  is  made  very  glad.  His  face  shines  like  the  sun, 


102  THE   WHITE    MAN'S   WAY 

and  he  smiles  with  much  gladness  as  he  looks  at 
the  bones.  He  bends  his  head  over,  so,  to  look  well 
at  the  bones,  and  then  Bidarshik  strikes  him  hard 
on  the  head,  with  axe,  once,  so,  and  the  strange  white 
man  kicks  and  is  dead. 

"Now/  I  say  to  Bidarshik,  'will  the  white  soldier 
men  come  and  take  you  away  to  the  land  under  the 
sun,  where  you  will  eat  much  and  grow  fat.'  Bidar 
shik  is  happy.  Already  has  his  sickness  gone  from 
him,  and  he  sits  by  the  fire  and  waits  for  the  coming 
of  the  white  soldier  men. 

"How  was  I  to  know  the  way  of  the  white 
man  is  never  twice  the  same?"  the  old  man  de 
manded,  whirling  upon  me  fiercely.  "How  was  I 
to  know  that  what  the  white  man  does  yesterday 
he  will  not  do  to-day,  and  that  what  he  does  to-day 
he  will  not  do  to-morrow?"  Ebbits  shook  his 
head  sadly.  "There  is  no  understanding  the  white 
man.  Yesterday  he  takes  Yamikan  to  the  land 
under  the  sun  and  makes  him  fat  with  much  grub. 
To-day  he  takes  Bidarshik  and  —  what  does  he 
do  with  Bidarshik  ?  Let  me  tell  you  what  he  does 
with  Bidarshik. 

"I,  Ebbits,  his  father,  will  tell  you.     He  takes 


THE   WHITE   MAN'S   WAY  103 

Bidarshik  to  Cambell  Fort,  and  he  ties  a  rope  around 
his  neck,  so,  and,  when  his  feet  are  no  more  on  the 
ground,  he  dies." 

"Ai!  ai!"  wailed  Zilla.  "And  never  does  he 
cross  the  lake  large  as  the  sky,  nor  see  the  land  under 
the  sun  where  there  is  no  snow." 

"Wherefore,"  old  Ebbits  said  with  grave  dignity, 
"there  be  no  one  to  hunt  meat  for  me  in  my  old 
age,  and  I  sit  hungry  by  my  fire  and  tell  my  story  to 
the  White  Man  who  has  given  me  grub,  and  strong 
tea,  and  tobacco  for  my  pipe." 

"Because  of  the  lying  and  very  miserable  white 
people,"  Zilla  proclaimed  shrilly. 

"Nay,"  answered  the  old  man  with  gentle  posi- 
tiveness.  "Because  of  the  way  of  the  white  man, 
which  is  without  understanding  and  never  twice  the 


same." 


THE   STORY   OF    KEESH 


THE  STORY  OF  KEESH 

KEESH  lived  long  ago  on  the  rim  of  the  polar 
sea,  was  head  man  of  his  village  through  many 
and  prosperous  years,  and  died  full  of  honors 
with  his  name  on  the  lips  of  men.  So  long  ago  did 
he  live  that  only  the  old  men  remember  his  name, 
his  name  and  the  tale,  which  they  got  from  the  old 
men  before  them,  and  which  the  old  men  to  come 
will  tell  to  their  children  and  their  children's  chil 
dren  down  to  the  end  of  time.  And  the  winter 
darkness,  when  the  north  gales  make  their  long 
sweep  across  the  ice-pack,  and  the  air  is  filled  with 
flying  white, '  and  no  man  may  venture  forth,  is  the 
chosen  time  for  the  telling  of  how  Keesh,  from  the 
poorest  igloo  in  the  village,  rose  to  power  and  place 
over  them  all. 

He  was  a  bright  boy,  so  the  tale  runs,  healthy  and 
strong,  and  he  had  seen  thirteen  suns,  in  their  way 
of  reckoning  time.  For  each  winter  the  sun  leaves 
the  land  in  darkness,  and  the  next  year  a  new  sun 

107 


io8  THE    STORY   OF   KEESH 

returns  so  that  they  may  be  warm  again  and  look 
upon  one  another's  faces.  The  father  of  Keesh  had 
been  a  very  brave  man,  but  he  had  met  his  death 
in  a  time  of  famine,  when  he  sought  to  save  the 
lives  of  his  people  by  taking  the  life  of  a  great  polar 
bear.  In  his  eagerness  he  came  to  close  grapples 
with  the  bear,  and  his  bones  were  crushed;  but  the 
bear  had  much  meat  on  him  and  the  people  were 
saved.  Keesh  was  his  only  son,  and  after  that 
Keesh  lived  alone  with  his  mother.  But  the  people 
are  prone  to  forget,  and  they  forgot  the  deed  of  his 
father;  and  he  being  but  a  boy,  and  his  mother  only 
a  woman,  they,  too,  were  swiftly  forgotten,  and  ere 
long  came  to  live  in  the  meanest  of  all  the  igloos. 

It  was  at  a  council,  one  night,  in  the  big  igloo  of 
Klosh-Kwan,  the  chief,  that  Keesh  showed  the  blood 
that  ran  in  his  veins  and  the  manhood  that  stiffened 
his  back.  With  the  dignity  of  an  elder,  he  rose  to 
his  feet,  and  waited  for  silence  amid  the  babble  of 
voices. 

"It  is  true  that  meat  be  apportioned  me  and 
mine,"  he  said.  "  But  it  is  ofttimes  old  and  tough, 
this  meat,  and,  moreover,  it  has  an  unusual  quantity 
of  bones." 


THE    STORY    OF   KEESH  109 

The  hunters,  grizzled  and  gray,  and  lusty  and 
young,  were  aghast.  The  like  had  never  been 
known  before.  A  child,  that  talked  like  a  grown 
man,  and  said  harsh  things  to  their  very  faces ! 

But  steadily  and  with  seriousness,  Keesh  went 
on.  "  For  that  I  know  my  father,  Bok,  was  a  great 
hunter,  I  speak  these  words.  It  is  said  that  Bok 
brought  home  more  meat  than  any  of  the  two  best 
hunters,  that  with  his  own  hands  he  attended  to  the 
division  of  it,  that  with  his  own  eyes  he  saw  to  it 
that  the  least  old  woman  and  the  last  old  man  re 
ceived  fair  share." 

"Na!  Na!"  the  men  cried.  "Put  the  child 
out!"  "Send  him  off  to  bed!"  "He  is  no  man 
that  he  should  talk  to  men  and  graybeards!" 

He  waited  calmly  till  the  uproar  died  down. 

"Thou  hast  a  wife,  Ugh-Gluk,"  he  said,  "and  for 
her  dost  thou  speak.  And  thou,  too,  Massuk,  a 
mother  also,  and  for  them  dost  thou  speak.  My 
mother  has  no  one,  save  me;  wherefore  I  speak. 
As  I  say,  though  Bok  be  dead  because  he  hunted 
over-keenly,  it  is  just  that  I,  who  am  his  son,  and 
that  Ikeega,  who  is  my  mother  and  was  his  wife, 
should  have  meat  in  plenty  so  long  as  there  be  meat 


no  THE   STORY    OF   KEESH 

in  plenty  in  the  tribe.  I,  Keesh,  the  son  of  Bok, 
have  spoken." 

He  sat  down,  his  ears  keenly  alert  to  the  flood  of 
protest  and  indignation  his  words  had  created. 

"That  a  boy  should  speak  in  council!"  old  Ugh- 
Gluk  was  mumbling. 

"Shall  the  babes  in  arms  tell  us  men  the  things 
we  shall  do?"  Massuk  demanded  in  a  loud  voice. 
"Am  I  a  man  that  I  should  be  made  a  mock  by  every 
child  that  cries  for  meat  ?" 

The  anger  boiled  a  white  heat.  They  ordered 
him  to  bed,  threatened  that  he  should  have  no  meat 
at  all,  and  promised  him  sore  beatings  for  his  pre 
sumption.  Keesh's  eyes  began  to  flash,  and  the 
blood  to  pound  darkly  under  his  skin.  In  the 
midst  of  the  abuse  he  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"Hear  me,  ye  men!"  he  cried.  "Never  shall  I 
speak  in  the  council  again,  never  again  till  the  men 
come  to  me  and  say,  'It  is  well,  Keesh,  that  thou 
shouldst  speak,  it  is  well  and  it  is  our  wish/  Take 
this  now,  ye  men,  for  my  last  word.  Bok,  my 
father,  was  a  great  hunter.  I,  too,  his  son,  shall  go 
and  hunt  the  meat  that  I  eat.  And  be  it  known, 
now,  that  the  division  of  that  which  I  kill  shall  be 


THE   STORY   OF   KEESH  in 

fair.  And  no  widow  nor  weak  one  shall  cry  in  the 
night  because  there  is  no  meat,  when  the  strong  men 
are  groaning  in  great  pain  for  that  they  have  eaten 
overmuch.  And  in  the  days  to  come  there  shall  be 
shame  upon  the  strong  men  who  have  eaten  over 
much.  I,  Keesh,  have  said  it!" 

Jeers  and  scornful  laughter  followed  him  out  of 
the  igloo,  but  his  jaw  was  set  and  he  went  his  way, 
looking  neither  to  right  nor  left. 

The  next  day  he  went  forth  along  the  shore-line 
where  the  ice  and  the  land  met  together.  Those 
who  saw  him  go  noted  that  he  carried  his  bow, 
with  a  goodly  supply  of  bone-barbed  arrows,  and 
that  across  his  shoulder  was  his  father's  big  hunt 
ing-spear.  And  there  was  laughter,  and  much  talk, 
at  the  event.  It  was  an  unprecedented  occurrence. 
Never  did  boys  of  his  tender  age  go  forth  to  hunt, 
much  less  to  hunt  alone.  Also  were  there  shaking 
of  heads  and  prophetic  mutterings,  and  the  women 
looked  pityingly  at  Ikeega,  and  her  face  was  grave 
and  sad. 

"He  will  be  back  ere  long,"  they  said  cheeringly. 

"Let  him  go;  it  will  teach  him  a  lesson,"  the 
hunters  said.  "And  he  will  come  back  shortly,  and 


ii2  THE   STORY   OF   KEESH 

he  will  be  meek  and  soft  of  speech  in  the  days 
to  follow." 

But  a  day  passed,  and  a  second,  and  on  the  third 
a  wild  gale  blew,  and  there  was  no  Keesh.  Ikeega 
tore  her  hair  and  put  soot  of  the  seal-oil  on  her  face 
in  token  of  her  grief;  and  the  women  assailed  the 
men  with  bitter  words  in  that  they  had  mistreated 
the  boy  and  sent  him  to  his  death ;  and  the  men 
made  no  answer,  preparing  to  go  in  search  of  the 
body  when  the  storm  abated. 

Early  next  morning,  however,  Keesh  strode  into 
the  village.  But  he  came  not  shamefacedly.  Across 
his  shoulders  he  bore  a  burden  of  fresh-killed 
meat.  And  there  was  importance  in  his  step  and 
arrogance  in  his  speech. 

"Go,  ye  men,  with  the  dogs  and  sledges,  and  take 
my  trail  for  the  better  part  of  a  day's  travel,"  he 
said.  "There  is  much  meat  on  the  ice  —  a  she- 
bear  and  two  half-grown  cubs." 

Ikeega  was  overcome  with  joy,  but  he  received 
her  demonstrations  in  manlike  fashion,  saying: 
"Come,  Ikeega,  let  us  eat.  And  after  that  I  shall 
sleep,  for  I  am  weary." 

And  he  passed  into  their  igloo  and  ate  profoundly, 
and  after  that  slept  for  twenty  running  hours. 


THE   STORY   OF   KEESH  113 

There  was  much  doubt  at  first,  much  doubt  and 
discussion.  The  killing  of  a  polar  bear  is  very 
dangerous,  but  thrice  dangerous  is  it,  and  three 
times  thrice,  to  kill  a  mother  bear  with  her  cubs. 
The  men  could  not  bring  themselves  to  believe  that 
the  boy  Keesh,  single-handed,  had  accomplished 
so  great  a  marvel.  But  the  women  spoke  of  the 
fresh-killed  meat  he  had  brought  on  his  back, 
and  this  was  an  overwhelming  argument  against 
their  unbelief.  So  they  finally  departed,  grumbling 
greatly  that  in  all  probability,  if  the  thing  were  so, 
he  had  neglected  to  cut  up  the  carcasses.  Now  in 
the  north  it  is  very  necessary  that  this  should  be  done 
as  soon  as  a  kill  is  made.  If  not,  the  meat  freezes 
so  solidly  as  to  turn  the  edge  of  the  sharpest  knife, 
and  a  three-hundred-pound  bear,  frozen  stiff,  is 
no  easy  thing  to  put  upon  a  sled  and  haul  over  the 
rough  ice.  But  arrived  at  the  spot,  they  found  not 
only  the  kill,  which  they  had  doubted,  but  that 
Keesh  had  quartered  the  beasts  in  true  hunter 
fashion,  and  removed  the  entrails. 

Thus  began  the  mystery  of  Keesh,  a  mystery 
that  deepened  and  deepened  with  the  passing  of 
the  days.  His  very  next  trip  he  killed  a  young  bear, 


ii4  THE   STORY   OF   KEESH 

nearly  full-grown,  and  on  the  trip  following,  a  large 
male  bear  and  his  mate.  He  was  ordinarily  gone 
from  three  to  four  days,  though  it  was  nothing  un 
usual  for  him  to  stay  away  a  week  at  a  time  on  the 
ice-field.  Always  he  declined  company  on  these 
expeditions,  and  the  people  marvelled.  "How  does 
he  do  it?"  they  demanded  of  one  another.  "Never 
does  he  take  a  dog  with  him,  and  dogs  are  of  such 
great  help,  too." 

"Why  dost  thou  hunt  only  bear?"  Klosh-Kwan 
once  ventured  to  ask  him. 

And  Keesh  made  fitting  answer.  "It  is  well 
known  that  there  is  more  meat  on  the  bear,"  he  said. 

But  there  was  also  talk  of  witchcraft  in  the  village. 
"He  hunts  with  evil  spirits,"  some  of  the  people  con 
tended,  "wherefore  his  hunting  is  rewarded.  How 
else  can  it  be,  save  that  he  hunts  with  evil  spirits  ?" 

"Mayhap  they  be  not  evil,  but  good,  these  spirits," 
others  said.  "It  is  known  that  his  father  was  a 
mighty  hunter.  May  not  his  father  hunt  with  him 
so  that  he  may  attain  excellence  and  patience  and 
understanding  ?  Who  knows  ?" 

None  the  less,  his  success  continued,  and  the  less 
skilful  hunters  were  often  kept  busy  hauling  in  his 


THE   STORY   OF   KEESH  115 

meat.  And  in  the  division  of  it  he  was  just.  As 
his  father  had  done  before  him,  he  saw  to  it  that  the 
least  old  woman  and  the  last  old  man  received  a 
fair  portion,  keeping  no  more  for  himself  than  his 
needs  required.  And  because  of  this,  and  of  his 
merit  as  a  hunter,  he  was  looked  upon  with  respect, 
and  even  awe;  and  there  was  talk  of  making  him 
chief  aftei  old  Klosh-Kwan.  Because  of  the  things 
he  had  done,  they  looked  for  him  to  appear  again 
in  the  council,  but  he  never  came,  and  they  were 
ashamed  to  ask. 

"I  am  minded  to  build  me  an  igloo"  he  said  one 
day  to  Klosh-Kwan  and  a  number  of  the  hunters. 
"It  shall  be  a  large  igloo,  wherein  Ikeega  and  I  can 
dwell  in  comfort." 

"Ay,"  they  nodded  gravely. 

"But  I  have  no  time.  My  business  is  hunting, 
and  it  takes  all  my  time.  So  it  is  but  just  that  the 
men  and  women  of  the  village  who  eat  my  meat 
should  build  me  my  igloo." 

And  the  igloo  was  built  accordingly,  on  a  generous 
scale  which  exceeded  even  the  dwelling  of  Klosh- 
Kwan.  Keesh  and  his  mother  moved  into  it,  and 
it  was  the  first  prosperity  she  had  enjoyed  since  the 


n6  THE   STORY    OF   KEESH 

death  of  Bok.  Nor  was  material  prosperity  alone 
hers,  for,  because  of  her  wonderful  son  and  the 
position  he  had  given  her,  she  came  to  be  looked  upon 
as  the  first  woman  in  all  the  village;  and  the  women 
were  given  to  visiting  her,  to  asking  her  advice,  and 
to  quoting  her  wisdom  when  arguments  arose  among 
themselves  or  with  the  men. 

But  it  was  the  mystery  of  Keesh's  marvellous 
hunting  that  took  chief  place  in  all  their  minds. 
And  one  day  Ugh-Gluk  taxed  him  with  witchcraft 
to  his  face. 

"It  is  charged,"  Ugh-Gluk  said  ominously,  "that 
thou  dealest  with  evil  spirits,  wherefore  thy  hunt 
ing  is  rewarded." 

"Is  not  the  meat  good?"  Keesh  made  answer. 
"Has  one  in  the  village  yet  to  fall  sick  from  the 
eating  of  it  ?  How  dost  thou  know  that  witchcraft 
be  concerned  ?  Or  dost  thou  guess,  in  the  dark, 
merely  because  of  the  envy  that  consumes  thee?" 

And  Ugh-Gluk  withdrew  discomfited,  the  women 
laughing  at  him  as  he  walked  away.  But  in  the 
council  one  night,  after  long  deliberation,  it  was 
determined  to  put  spies  on  his  track  when  he  went 
forth  to  hunt,  so  that  his  methods  might  be  learned. 


THE    STORY   OF   KEESH  117 

So,  on  his  next  trip,  Bim  and  Bawn,  two  young  men, 
and  of  hunters  the  craftiest,  followed  after  him, 
taking  care  not  to  be  seen.  After  five  days  they 
returned,  their  eyes  bulging  and  their  tongues 
a-tremble  to  tell  what  they  had  seen.  The  council 
was  hastily  called  in  Klosh-Kwan's  dwelling,  and 
Bim  took  up  the  tale. 

"  Brothers !  As  commanded,  we  journeyed  on 
the  trail  of  Keesh,  and  cunningly  we  journeyed, 
so  that  he  might  not  know.  And  midway  of  the  first 
day  he  picked  up  with  a  great  he-bear.  It  was  a 
very  great  bear." 

"None  greater,"  Bawn  corroborated,  and  went 
on  himself.  "Yet  was  the  bear  not  inclined  to 
fight,  for  he  turned  away  and  made  off  slowly  over 
the  ice.  This  we  saw  from  the  rocks  of  the  shore, 
and  the  bear  came  toward  us,  and  after  him  came 
Keesh,  very  much  unafraid.  And  he  shouted 
harsh  words  after  the  bear,  and  waved  his  arms 
about,  and  made  much  noise.  Then  did  the  bear 
grow  angry,  and  rise  up  on  his  hind  legs,  and  growl. 
But  Keesh  walked  right  up  to  the  bear." 

"Ay,"  Bim  continued  the  story.  "Right  up  to 
the  bear  Keesh  walked.  And  the  bear  took  after 


n8  THE   STORY   OF   KEESH 

him,  and  Keesh  ran  away.  But  as  he  ran  he  dropped 
a  little  round  ball  on  the  ice.  And  the  bear  stopped 
and  smelled  of  it,  then  swallowed  it  up.  And 
Keesh  continued  to  run  away  and  drop  little  round 
balls,  and  the  bear  continued  to  swallow  them  up." 

Exclamations  and  cries  of  doubt  were  being  made, 
and  Ugh-Gluk  expressed  open  unbelief. 

"With  our  own  eyes  we  saw  it,"  Birn  affirmed. 

And  Bawn  -  "Ay,  with  our  own  eyes.  And 
this  continued  until  the  bear  stood  suddenly  up 
right  and  cried  aloud  in  pain,  and  thrashed  his  fore 
paws  madly  about.  And  Keesh  continued  to  make 
off  over  the  ice  to  a  safe  distance.  But  the  bear 
gave  him  no  notice,  being  occupied  with  the  mis 
fortune  the  little  round  balls  had  wrought  within 
him." 

"Ay,  within  him,"  Bim  interrupted.  "For  he 
did  claw  at  himself,  and  leap  about  over  the  ice  like 
a  playful  puppy,  save  from  the  way  he  growled  and 
squealed  it  was  plain  it  was  not  play  but  pain. 
Never  did  I  see  such  a  sight!" 

"Nay,  never  was  such  a  sight  seen,"  Bawn  took 
up  the  strain.  "And  furthermore,  it  was  such  a 
large  bear." 


THE    STORY   OF   KEESH  119 

"Witchcraft/'  Ugh-Gluk  suggested. 

"I  know  not,"  Bawn  replied.  "I  tell  only  of 
what  my  eyes  beheld.  And  after  a  while  the  bear 
grew  weak  and  tired,  for  he  was  very  heavy  and  he 
had  jumped  about  with  exceeding  violence,  and 
he  went  off  along  the  shore-ice,  shaking  his  head 
slowly  from  side  to  side  and  sitting  down  ever  and 
again  to  squeal  and  cry.  And  Keesh  followed  after 
the  bear,  and  we  followed  after  Keesh,  and  for  that 
day  and  three  days  more  we  followed.  The  bear 
grew  weak,  and  never  ceased  crying  from  his  pain." 

"It  was  a  charm  !"  Ugh-Gluk  exclaimed.  "Surely 
it  was  a  charm  !" 

"It   may   well   be." 

And  Bim  relieved  Bawn.  "The  bear  wandered, 
now  this  way  and  now  that,  doubling  back  and 
forth  and  crossing  his  trail  in  circles,  so  that  at  the 
end  he  was  near  where  Keesh  had  first  come  upon 
him.  By  this  time  he  was  quite  sick,  the  bear, 
and  could  crawl  no  farther,  so  Keesh  came  up 
close  and  speared  him  to  death." 

"And  then?"  Klosh-Kwan  demanded. 

"Then  we  left  Keesh  skinning  the  bear,  and  came 
running  that  the  news  of  the  killing  might  be  told." 


120  THE   STORY   OF   KEESH 

And  in  the  afternoon  of  that  day  the  women 
hauled  in  the  meat  of  the  bear  while  the  men  sat 
in  council  assembled.  When  Keesh  arrived  a  mes 
senger  was  sent  to  him,  bidding  him  come  to  the 
council.  But  he  sent  reply,  saying  that  he  was 
hungry  and  tired;  also  that  his  igloo  was  large  and 
comfortable  and  could  hold  many  men. 

And  curiosity  was  so  strong  on  the  men  that  the 
whole  council,  Klosh-Kwan  to  the  fore,  rose  up 
and  went  to  the  igloo  of  Keesh.  He  was  eating, 
but  he  received  them  with  respect  and  seated  them 
according  to  their  rank.  Ikeega  was  proud  and  em 
barrassed  by  turns,  but  Keesh  was  quite  composed. 

Klosh-Kwan  recited  the  information  brought  by 
Bim  and  Bawn,  and  at  its  close  said  in  a  stern  voice : 
"So  explanation  is  wanted,  O  Keesh,  of  thy  manner 
of  hunting.  Is  there  witchcraft  in  it?" 

Keesh  looked  up  and  smiled.  "Nay,  O  Klosh- 
Kwan.  It  is  not  for  a  boy  to  know  aught  of  witches, 
and  of  witches  I  know  nothing.  I  have  but  devised 
a  means  whereby  I  may  kill  the  ice-bear  with  ease, 
that  is  all.  It  be  headcraft,  not  witchcraft." 

"And  may  any  man?" 

"Any  man." 


THE    STORY    OF   KEESH  121 

There  was  a  long  silence.  The  men  looked  in 
one  another's  faces,  and  Keesh  went  on  eating. 

"And  .  .  .  and  .  .  .  and  wilt  thou  tell  us,  O 
Keesh?"  Klosh-Kwan  finally  asked  in  a  tremulous 
voice. 

"Yea,  I  will  tell  thee."  Keesh  finished  sucking 
a  marrow-bone  and  rose  to  his  feet.  "It  is  quite 
simple.  Behold!" 

He  picked  up  a  thin  strip  of  whalebone  and 
showed  it  to  them.  The  ends  were  sharp  as  needle 
points.  The  strip  he  coiled  carefully,  till  it  dis 
appeared  in  his  hand.  Then,  suddenly  releasing 
it,  it  sprang  straight  again.  He  picked  up  a  piece 
of  blubber. 

"So,"  he  said,  "one  takes  a  small  chunk  of  blub 
ber,  thus,  and  thus  makes  it  hollow.  Then  into 
the  hollow  goes  the  whalebone,  so,  tightly  coiled, 
and  another  piece  of  blubber  is  fitted  over  the  whale 
bone.  After  that  it  is  put  outside  where  it  freezes 
into  a  little  round  ball.  The  bear  swrallows  the 
little  round  ball,  the  blubber  melts,  the  whalebone 
with  its  sharp  ends  stands  out  straight,  the  bear 
gets  sick,  and  when  the  bear  is  very  sick,  why,  you 
kill  him  with  a  spean  It  is.  quite  simple." 


122  THE   STORY   OF  KEESH 

And  Ugh-Gluk  said  "Oh!"  and  Klosh-Kwan 
said  "Ah!"  And  each  said  something  after  his 
own  manner,  and  all  understood. 

And  this  is  the  story  of  Keesh,  who  lived  long  ago 
on  the  rim  of  the  polar  sea.  Because  he  exercised 
headcraft  and  not  witchcraft,  he  rose  from  the 
meanest  igloo  to  be  head  man  of  his  village,  and 
through  all  the  years  that  he  lived,  it  is  related,  his 
tribe  was  prosperous,  and  neither  widow  nor  weak 
one  cried  aloud  in  the  night  because  there  was  no 
meat. 


THE    UNEXPECTED 


THE  UNEXPECTED 

IT  is  a  simple  matter  to  see  the  obvious,  to  do 
the  expected.  The  tendency  of  the  individual 
life  is  to  be  static  rather  than  dynamic,  and 
this  tendency  is  made  into  a  propulsion  by  civiliza 
tion,  where  the  obvious  only  is  seen,  and  the  un 
expected  rarely  happens.  When  the  unexpected 
does  happen,  however,  and  when  it  is  of  sufficiently 
grave  import,  the  unfit  perish.  They  do  not  see 
what  is  not  obvious,  are  unable  to  do  the  unexpected, 
are  incapable  of  adjusting  their  well-grooved  lives 
to  other  and  strange  grooves.  In  short,  when  they 
come  to  the  end  of  their  own  groove,  they  die. 

On  the  other  hand,  there  are  those  that  make 
toward  survival,  the  fit  individuals  who  escape  from 
the  rule  of  the  obvious  and  the  expected  and 
adjust  their  lives  to  no  matter  what  strange  grooves 
they  may  stray  into,  or  into  which  they  may  be 
forced.  Such  an  individual  was  Edith  Whittlesey. 
She  was  born  in  a  rural  district  of  England,  where 

125 


126  THE   UNEXPECTED 

life  proceeds  by  rule  of  thumb  and  the  unexpected 
is  so  very  unexpected  that  when  it  happens  it  is 
looked  upon  as  an  immorality.  She  went  into 
service  early,  and  while  yet  a  young  woman, 
by  rule-of-thumb  progression,  she  became  a  lady's 
maid. 

The  effect  of  civilization  is  to  impose  human 
law  upon  environment  until  it  becomes  machine- 
like  in  its  regularity.  The  objectionable  is  elimi 
nated,  the  inevitable  is  foreseen. \  One  is  not  even 
made  wet  by  the  rain  nor  cold  by  the  frost;  while 
death,  instead  of  stalking  about  grewsome  and 
accidental,  becomes  a  prearranged  pageant,  moving 
along  a  well-oiled  groove  to  the  family  vault,  where 
the  hinges  are  kept  from  rusting  and  the  dust  from 
the  air  is  swept  continually  away. 

Such  was  the  environment  of  Edith  Whittlesey. 
Nothing  happened.  It  could  scarcely  be  called  a 
\  happening,  when,  at  the  age  of  twenty-five,  she 
accompanied  her  mistress  on  a  bit  of  travel  to  the 
United  States.  The  groove  merely  changed  its 
direction.  It  was  still  the  same  groove  and  well 
oiled.  It  was  a  groove  that  bridged  the  Atlantic 
with  uneventfulness,  so  that  the  ship  was  not 


THE   UNEXPECTED  127 

a  ship  in  the  midst  of  the  sea,  but  a  capacious,  many- 
corridored  hotel  that  moved  swiftly  and  placidly, 
crushing  the  waves  into  submission  with  its  colossal 
bulk  until  the  sea  was  a  mill-pond,  monotonous 
with  quietude.  And  at  the  other  side  the  groove 
continued  on  over  the  land  —  a  well-disposed, 
respectable  groove  that  supplied  hotels  at  every 
stopping-place,  and  hotels  on  wheels  between  the 
stopping-places. 

In  Chicago,  while  her  mistress  saw  one  side  of 
social  life,  Edith  Whittlesey  saw  another  side;  and 
when  she  left  her  lady's  service  and  became  Edith 
Nelson,  she  betrayed,  perhaps  faintly,  her  ability  to 
grapple  with  the  unexpected  and  to  master  it.  Hans 
Nelson,  immigrant,  Swede  by  birth  and  carpenter 
by  occupation,  had  in  him  that  Teutonic  unrest 
that  drives  the  race  ever  westward  on  its  great 
adventure.  He  was  a  large-muscled,  stolid  sort  of 
a  man,  in  whom  little  imagination  was  coupled 
with  immense  initiative,  and  who  possessed,  withal, 
loyalty  and  affection  as  sturdy  as  his  own  strength. 

"When  I  have  worked  hard  and  saved  me  some 
money,  I  will  go  to  Colorado,"  he  had  told  Edith 
on  the  day  after  their  wedding.  A  year  later  they 


128  THE    UNEXPECTED 

were  in  Colorado,  where  Hans  Nelson  saw  his  first 
mining  and  caught  the  mining-fever  himself.  His 
prospecting  led  him  through  the  Dakotas,  Idaho, 
and  eastern  Oregon,  and  on  into  the  mountains 
of  British  Columbia.  In  camp  and  on  trail,  Edith 
Nelson  was  always  with  him,  sharing  his  luck,  his 
hardship,  and  his  toil.  The  short  step  of  the  house- 
reared  woman  she  exchanged  for  the  long  stride  of 
the  mountaineer.  She  learned  to  look  upon  danger 
clear-eyed  and  with  understanding,  losing  forever 
that  panic  fear  which  is  bred  of  ignorance  and 
which  afflicts  the  city-reared,  making  them  as  silly 
as  silly  horses,  so  that  they  await  fate  in  frozen 
horror  instead  of  grappling  with  it,  or  stampede  in 
blind  self-destroying  terror  which  clutters  the  way 
with  their  crushed  carcasses. 

Edith  Nelson  met  the  unexpected  at  every  turn 
of  the  trail,  and  she  trained  her  vision  so  that  she 
saw  in  the  landscape,  not  the  obvious,  but  the 
concealed.  She,  who  had  never  cooked  in  her  life, 
learned  to  make  bread  without  the  mediation  of 
hops,  yeast,  or  baking-powder,  and  to  bake  bread, 
top  and  bottom,  in  a  frying-pan  before  an  open 
fire.  And  when  the  last  cup  of  flour  was  gone  and 


THE   UNEXPECTED  120 

the  last  rind  of  bacon,  she  was  able  to  rise  to  the 
occasion,  and  of  moccasins  and  the  softer-tanned 
bits  of  leather  in  the  outfit  to  make  a  grub-stake  sub 
stitute  that  somehow  held  a  man's  soul  in  his  body 
and  enabled  him  to  stagger  on.  She  learned  to  pack 
a  horse  as  well  as  a  man,  —  a  task  to  break  the  heart 
and  the  pride  of  any  city-dweller,  and  she  knew 
how  to  throw  the  hitch  best  suited  for  any  particular 
kind  of  pack.  Also,  she  could  build  a  fire  of  wet 
wood  in  a  downpour  of  rain  and  not  lose  her  temper. 
In  short,  in  all  its  guises  she  mastered  the  unexpected. 
But  the  Great  Unexpected  was  yet  to  come  into  her 
life  and  put  its  test  upon  her. 

The  gold-seeking  tide  was  flooding  northward 
into  Alaska,  and  it  was  inevitable  that  Hans  Nelson 
and  his  wife  should  be  caught  up  by  the  stream 
and  swept  toward  the  Klondike.  The  fall  of  1897 
found  them  at  Dyea,  but  without  the  money  to 
carry  an  outfit  across  Chilcoot  Pass  and  float  it 
down  to  Dawson.  So  Hans  Nelson  worked  at  his 
trade  that  winter  and  helped  rear  the  mushroom 
outfitting-town  of  Skaguay. 

He  was  on  the  edge  of  things,  and  throughout 
the  winter  he  heard  all  Alaska  calling  to  him. 


130  THE   UNEXPECTED 

Latuya  Bay  called  loudest,  so  that  the  summer  of 
1898  found  him  and  his  wife  threading  the  mazes 
of  the  broken  coast-line  in  seventy-foot  Siwash 
canoes.  With  them  were  Indians,  also  three  other 
men.  The  Indians  landed  them  and  their  supplies 
in  a  lonely  bight  of  land  a  hundred  miles  or  so 
beyond  Latuya  Bay,  and  returned  to  Skaguay;  but 
the  three  other  men  remained,  for  they  were  members 
of  the  organized  party.  Each  had  put  an  equal 
share  of  capital  into  the  outfitting,  and  the  profits 
were  to  be  divided  equally.  In  that  Edith  Nelson 
undertook  to  cook  for  the  outfit,  a  man's  share  was 
to  be  her  portion. 

First,  spruce  trees  were  cut  down  and  a  three- 
room  cabin  constructed.  To  keep  this  cabin  was 
Edith  Nelson's  task.  The  task  of  the  men  was  to 
search  for  gold,  which  they  did;  and  to  find  gold, 
which  they  likewise  did.  It  was  not  a  startling 
find,  merely  a  low-pay  placer  where  long  hours  of 
severe  toil  earned  each  man  between  fifteen  and 
twenty  dollars  a  day.  The  brief  Alaskan  summer 
protracted  itself  beyond  its  usual  length,  and  they 
took  advantage  of  the  opportunity,  delaying  their 
return  to  Skaguay  to  the  last  moment.  And  then 


THE   UNEXPECTED  131 

it  was  too  late.  Arrangements  had  been  made  to 
accompany  the  several  dozen  local  Indians  on  their 
fall  trading  trip  down  the  coast.  The  Siwashes  had 
waited  on  the  white  people  until  the  eleventh  hour, 
and  then  departed.  There  was  no  course  left  the 
party  but  to  wait  for  chance  transportation.  In 
the  meantime  the  claim  was  cleaned  up  and  fire 
wood  stocked  in. 

The  Indian  summer  had  dreamed  on  and  on, 
and  then,  suddenly,  with  the  sharpness  of  bugles, 
winter  came.  It  came  in  a  single  night,  and  the 
miners  awoke  to  howling  wind,  driving  snow,  and 
freezing  water.  Storm  followed  storm,  and  between 
the  storms  there  was  the  silence,  broken  only  by 
the  boom  of  the  surf  on  the  desolate  shore,  where 
the  salt  spray  rimmed  the  beach  with  frozen 
white. 

All  went  well  in  the  cabin.  Their  gold-dust 
had  weighed  up  something  like  eight  thousand 
dollars,  and  they  could  not  but  be  contented.  The 
men  made  snowshoes,  hunted  fresh  meat  for  the 
larder,  and  in  the  long  evenings  played  endless 
games  of  whist  and  pedro.  Now  that  the  mining 
had  ceased,  Edith  Nelson  turned  over  the  fire- 


132  THE   UNEXPECTED 

building  and  the   dish-washing  to  the   men,   while 
she  darned  their  socks  and  mended  their  clothes. 

There  was  no  grumbling,  no  bickering,  nor  petty 
quarrelling  in  the  little  cabin,  and  they  often  con 
gratulated  one  another  on  the  general  happiness 
of  the  party.  Hans  Nelson  was  stolid  and  easy 
going,  while  Edith  had  long  before  won  his  un 
bounded  admiration  by  her  capacity  for  getting  on 
with  people.  Harkey,  a  long,  lank  Texan,  was 
unusually  friendly  for  one  with  a  saturnine  disposi 
tion,  and,  as  long  as  his  theory  that  gold  grew  was 
not  challenged,  was  quite  companionable.  The 
fourth  member  of  the  party,  Michael  Dennin,  con 
tributed  his  Irish  wit  to  the  gayety  of  the  cabin. 
He  was  a  large,  powerful  man,  prone  to  sudden 
rushes  of  anger  over  little  things,  and  of  unfailing 
good-humor  under  the  stress  and  strain  of  big 
things.  The  fifth  and  last  member,  Dutchy,  was 
the  willing  butt  of  the  party.  He  even  went  out  of 
his  way  to  raise  a  laugh  at  his  own  expense  in  order 
to  keep  things  cheerful.  His  deliberate  aim  in  life 
seemed  to  be  that  of  a  maker  of  laughter.  No 
serious  quarrel  had  ever  vexed  the  serenity  of  the 
party;  and,  now  that  each  had  sixteen  hundred 


THE   UNEXPECTED  133 

dollars  to  show  for  a  short  summer's  work,  there 
reigned  the  well-fed,  contented  spirit  of  prosperity. 

And  then  the  unexpected  happened.  They  had 
just  sat  down  to  the  breakfast  table.  Though  it 
was  already  eight  o'clock  (late  breakfasts  had 
followed  naturally  upon  cessation  of  the  steady 
work  at  mining)  a  candle  in  the  neck  of  a  bottle 
lighted  the  meal.  Edith  and  Hans  sat  at  each  end 
of  the  table.  On  one  side,  with  their  backs  to  the 
door,  sat  Harkey  and  Dutchy.  The  place  on  the 
other  side  was  vacant.  Dennin  had  not  yet  come  in. 

Hans  Nelson  looked  at  the  empty  chair,  shook 
his  head  slowly,  and,  with  a  ponderous  attempt  at 
humor,  said:  "Always  is  he  first  at  the  grub.  It  is 
very  strange.  Maybe  he  is  sick." 

"Where  is  Michael?"    Edith  asked. 

"Got  up  a  little  ahead  of  us  and  went  outside," 
Harkey  answered. 

Dutchy's  face  beamed  mischievously.  He  pre 
tended  knowledge  of  Dennin's  absence,  and  affected 
a  mysterious  air,  while  they  clamored  for  informa 
tion.  Edith,  after  a  peep  into  the  men's  bunk- 
room,  returned  to  the  table.  Hans  looked  at  her, 
and  she  shook  her  head. 


i34  THE   UNEXPECTED 

"He  was  never  late  at  meal-time  before,"  she 
remarked. 

"I  cannot  understand,"  said  Hans.  "Always 
has  he  the  great  appetite  like  the  horse." 

"It  is  too  bad,"  Dutchy  said,  with  a  sad  shake  of 
his  head. 

They  were  beginning  to  make  merry  over  their 
comrade's  absence. 

"It  is  a  great  pity!"    Dutchy  volunteered. 

"What  ?"    they  demanded  in  chorus. 

"Poor  Michael,"  was  the  mournful  reply. 

"Well,  what's  wrong  with  Michael?"  Harkey 
asked. 

"He  is  not  hungry  no  more,"  wailed  Dutchy. 
"He  has  lost  der  appetite.  He  do  not  like  der 
grub." 

"Not  from  the  way  he  pitches  into  it  up  to  his 
ears,"  remarked  Harkey. 

"He  does  dot  shust  to  be  politeful  to  Mrs. 
Nelson,"  was  Dutchy's  quick  retort.  "I  know,  I 
know,  and  it  is  too  pad.  Why  is  he  not  here  ? 
Pecause  he  haf  gone  out.  Why  haf  he  gone  out  ? 
For  der  defelopment  of  der  appetite.  How  does 
he  defelop  der  appetite  ?  He  walks  barefoots  in 


THE   UNEXPECTED  135 

der  snow.  Ach !  don't  I  know  ?  It  is  der  way 
der  rich  peoples  chases  after  der  appetite  when  it 
is  no  more  and  is  running  away.  Michael  haf 
sixteen  hundred  dollars.  He  is  rich  peoples.  He 
haf  no  appetite.  Derefore,  pecause,  he  is  chasing 
der  appetite.  Shust  you  open  der  door  und  you  will 
see  his  barefoots  in  der  snow.  No,  you  will  not  see 
der  appetite.  Dot  is  shust  his  trouble.  When  he 
sees  der  appetite  he  will  catch  it  und  come  to  preak- 
fast." 

They  burst  into  loud  laughter  at  Dutchy's  non 
sense.  The  sound  had  scarcely  died  away  when 
the  door  opened  and  Dennin  came  in.  All  turned 
to  look  at  him.  He  was  carrying  a  shot-gun.  Even 
as  they  looked,  he  lifted  it  to  his  shoulder  and  fired 
twice.  At  the  first  shot  Dutchy  sank  upon  the 
table,  overturning  his  mug  of  coffee,  his  yellow  mop 
of  hair  dabbling  in  his  plate  of  mush.  His  fore 
head,  which  pressed  upon  the  near  edge  of  the  plate, 
tilted  the  plate  up  against  his  hair  at  an  angle  of 
forty-five  degrees.  Harkey  was  in  the  air,  in  his 
spring  to  his  feet,  at  the  second  shot,  and  he  pitched 
face  down  upon  the  floor,  his  "  My  God ! "  gurgling 
and  dying  in  his  throat. 


136  THE   UNEXPECTED 

It  was  the  unexpected.  Hans  and  Edith  were 
stunned.  They  sat  at  the  table  with  bodies  tense, 
their  eyes  fixed  in  a  fascinated  gaze  upon  the  mur 
derer.  Dimly  they  saw  him  through  the  smoke  of 
the  powder,  and  in  the  silence  nothing  was  to  be 
heard  save  the  drip-drip  of  Dutchy's  spilled  coffee 
on  the  floor.  Dennin  threw  open  the  breech  of  the 
shot-gun,  ejecting  the  empty  shells.  Holding  the 
gun  with  one  hand,  he  reached  with  the  other  into 
his  pocket  for  fresh  shells. 

He  was  thrusting  the  shells  into  the  gun  when 
Edith  Nelson  was  aroused  to  action.  It  was  patent 
that  he  intended  to  kill  Hans  and  her.  For  a  space 
of  possibly  three  seconds  of  time  she  had  been  dazed 
and  paralyzed  by  the  horrible  and  inconceivable 
form  in  which  the  unexpected  had  made  its  ap 
pearance.  Then  she  rose  to  it  and  grappled  with 
it.  She  grappled  with  it  concretely,  making  a  cat 
like  leap  for  the  murderer  and  gripping  his  neck 
cloth  with  both  her  hands.  The  impact  of  her  body 
sent  him  stumbling  backward  several  steps.  He 
tried  to  shake  her  loose  and  still  retain  his  hold  on 
the  gun.  This  was  awkward,  for  her  firm-fleshed 
body  had  become  a  cat's.  She  threw  herself  to  one 


THE   UNEXPECTED  137 

side,  and  with  her  grip  at  his  throat  nearly  jerked 
him  to  the  floor.  He  straightened  himself  and 
whirled  swiftly.  Still  faithful  to  her  hold,  her  body 
followed  the  circle  of  his  whirl  so  that  her  feet  left 
the  floor,  and  she  swung  through  the  air  fastened 
to  his  throat  by  her  hands.  The  whirl  culminated 
in  a  collision  with  a  chair,  and  the  man  and  woman 
crashed  to  the  floor  in  a  wild  struggling  fall  that 
extended  itself  across  half  the  length  of  the  room. 

Hans  Nelson  was  half  a  second  behind  his  wife 
in  rising  to  the  unexpected.  His  nerve  processes 
and  mental  processes  were  slower  than  hers.  His 
was  the  grosser  organism,  and  it  had  taken  him  half 
a  second  longer  to  perceive,  and  determine,  and 
proceed  to  do.  She  had  already  flown  at  Dennin 
and  gripped  his  throat,  when  Hans  sprang  to  his 
feet.  But  her  coolness  was  not  his.  He  was  in  a 
blind  fury,  a  Berserker  rage.  At  the  instant  he 
sprang  from  his  chair  his  mouth  opened  and  there 
issued  forth  a  sound  that  was  half  roar,  half  bellow. 
The  whirl  of  the  two  bodies  had  already  started, 
and  still  roaring,  or  bellowing,  he  pursued  this 
whirl  down  the  room,  overtaking  it  when  it  fell  to 
the  floor. 


138  THE   UNEXPECTED 

Hans  hurled  himself  upon  the  prostrate  man, 
striking  madly  with  his  fists.  They  were  sledge- 
like  blows,  and  when  Edith  felt  Dennin's  body 
relax  she  loosed  her  grip  and  rolled  clear.  She  lay 
on  the  floor,  panting  and  watching.  The  fury  of 
blows  continued  to  rain  down.  Dennin  did  not 
seem  to  mind  the  blows.  He  did  not  even  move. 
Then  it  dawned  upon  her  that  he  was  unconscious. 
She  cried  out  to  Hans  to  stop.  She  cried  out  again. 
But  he  paid  no  heed  to  her  voice.  She  caught  him 
by  the  arm,  but  her  clinging  to  it  merely  impeded 
bis  effort. 

It  was  no  reasoned  impulse  that  stirred  her  to  do 
what  she  then  did.  Nor  was  it  a  sense  of  pity,  nor 
obedience  to  the  "Thou  shalt  not"  of  religion. 
Rather  was  it  some  sense  of  law,  an  ethic  of  her 
race  and  early  environment,  that  compelled  her  to 
interpose  her  body  between  her  husband  and  the 
helpless  murderer.  It  was  not  until  Hans  knew  he 
was  striking  his  wife  that  he  ceased.  He  allowed 
himself  to  be  shoved  away  by  her  in  much  the  same 
way  that  a  ferocious  but  obedient  dog  allows  itself 
to  be  shoved  away  by  its  master.  The  analogy  went 
even  farther.  Deep  in  his  throat,  in  an  animal- 


THE   UNEXPECTED  139 

like  way,  Hans's  rage  still  rumbled,  and  several 
times  he  made  as  though  to  spring  back  upon  his 
prey  and  was  only  prevented  by  the  woman's  swiftly 
interposed  body. 

Back  and  farther  back  Edith  shoved  her  husband. 
She  had  never  seen  him  in  such  a  condition,  and  she 
was  more  frightened  of  him  than  she  had  been  of 
Dennin  in  the  thick  of  the  struggle.  She  could  not 
believe  that  this  raging  beast  was  her  Hans,  and 
with  a  shock  she  became  suddenly  aware  of  a 
shrinking,  instinctive  fear  that  he  might  snap  her 
hand  in  his  teeth  like  any  wild  animal.  For  some 
seconds,  unwilling  to  hurt  her,  yet  dogged  in  his 
desire  to  return  to  the  attack,  Hans  dodged  back  and 
forth.  But  she  resolutely  dodged  with  him,  until  the 
first  glimmerings  of  reason  returned  and  he  gave  over. 

Both  crawled  to  their  feet.  Hans  staggered 
back  against  the  wall,  where  he  leaned,  his  face 
working,  in  his  throat  the  deep  and  continuous 
rumble  that  died  away  with  the  seconds  and  at  last 
ceased.  The  time  for  the  reaction  had  come. 
Edith  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  wringing  her 
hands,  panting  and  gasping,  her  whole  body  trem 
bling  violently. 


i4o  THE   UNEXPECTED. 

Hans  looked  at  nothing,  but  Edith's  eyes  wandered 
wildly  from  detail  to  detail  of  what  had  taken  place. 
Dennin  lay  without  movement.  The  overturned 
chair,  hurled  onward  in  the  mad  whirl,  lay  near 
him.  Partly  under  him  lay  the  shot-gun,  still 
broken  open  at  the  breech.  Spilling  out  of  his 
right  hand  were  the  two  cartridges  which  he  had 
failed  to  put  into  the  gun  and  which  he  had  clutched 
until  consciousness  left  him.  Harkey  lay  on  the 
floor,  face  downward,  where  he  had  fallen;  while 
Dutchy  rested  forward  on  the  table,  his  yellow  mop 
of  hair  buried  in  his  mush-plate,  the  plate  itself 
still  tilted  at  an  angle  of  forty-five  degrees.  This 
tilted  plate  fascinated  her.  Why  did  it  not  fall 
down  ?  It  was  ridiculous.  It  was  not  in  the  nature 
of  things  for  a  mush-plate  to  up-end  itself  on  the 
table,  even  if  a  man  or  so  had  been  killed. 

She  glanced  back  at  Dennin,  but  her  eyes  re 
turned  to  the  tilted  plate.  It  was  so  ridiculous ! 
She  felt  a  hysterical  impulse  to  laugh.  Then  she 
noticed  the  silence,  and  forgot  the  plate  in  a  desire 
for  something  to  happen.  The  monotonous  drip  of 
the  coffee  from  the  table  to  the  floor  merely  empha 
sized  the  silence.  Why  did  not  Hans  do  something  ? 


THE  UNEXPECTED  141 

say  something  ?  She  looked  at  him  and  was  about 
to  speak,  when  she  discovered  that  her  tongue 
refused  its  wonted  duty.  There  was  a  peculiar 
ache  in  her  throat,  and  her  mouth  was  dry  and 
furry.  She  could  only  look  at  Hans,  who,  in  turn, 
looked  at  her. 

Suddenly  the  silence  was  broken  by  a  sharp, 
metallic  clang.  She  screamed,  jerking  her  eyes 
back  to  the  table.  The  plate  had  fallen  down. 
Hans  sighed  as  though  awakening  from  sleep.  The 
clang  of  the  plate  had  aroused  them  to  life  in  a  new 
world.  The  cabin  epitomized  the  new  world  in 
which  they  must  thenceforth  live  and  move.  The 
old  cabin  was  gone  forever.  The  horizon  of  life 
was  totally  new  and  unfamiliar.  The  unexpected 
had  swept  its  wizardry  over  the  face  of  things, 
changing  the  perspective,  juggling  values,  and 
shuffling  the  real  and  the  unreal  into  perplexing 
confusion. 

"My  God,  Hans!"   was  Edith's  first  speech. 

He  did  not  answer,  but  stared  at  her  with  horror. 
Slowly  his  eyes  wandered  over  the  room,  for  the 
first  time  taking  in  its  details.  Then  he  put  on  his 
cap  and  started  for  the  door. 


142  THE   UNEXPECTED 

"Where  are  you  going?"  Edith  demanded,  in 
an  agony  of  apprehension. 

His  hand  was  on  the  door-knob,  and  he  half 
turned  as  he  answered,  "To  dig  some  graves." 

"Don't  leave  me,  Hans,  with — "  her  eyes  swept 
the  room  —  "with  this." 

"The  graves  must  be  dug  sometime,"  he  said. 

"But  you  do  not  know  how  many,"  she  objected 
desperately.  She  noted  his  indecision,  and  added, 
"Besides,  I'll  go  with  you  and  help." 

Hans  stepped  back  to  the  table  and  mechanically 
snufFed  the  candle.  Then  between  them  they  made 
the  examination.  Both  Harkey  and  Dutchy  were 
dead  —  frightfully  dead,  because  of  the  close  range 
of  the  shot-gun.  Hans  refused  to  go  near  Dennin, 
and  Edith  was  forced  to  conduct  this  portion  of 
the  investigation  by  herself. 

"He  isn't  dead,"  she  called  to  Hans. 

He  walked  over  and  looked  down  at  the  murderer. 

"What  did  you  say?"  Edith  demanded,  having 
caught  the  rumble  of  inarticulate  speech  in  her 
husband's  throat. 

"I  said  it  was  a  damn  shame  that  he  isn't  dead," 
came  the  reply0 


THE   UNEXPECTED  143 

Edith  was  bending  over  the  body. 

"Leave  him  alone,"  Hans  commanded  harshly, 
in  a  strange  voice. 

She  looked  at  him  in  sudden  alarm.  He  had 
picked  up  the  shot-gun  dropped  by  Dennin  and 
was  thrusting  in  the  shells. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  she  cried,  rising 
swiftly  from  her  bending  position. 

Hans  did  not  answer,  but  she  saw  the  shot-gun 
going  to  his  shoulder.  She  grasped  the  muzzle 
with  her  hand  and  threw  it  up. 

"Leave  me  alone!"    he  cried  hoarsely. 

He  tried  to  jerk  the  weapon  away  from  her,  but  she 
came  in  closer  and  clung  to  him. 

"Hans!  Hans!  Wake  up!"  she  cried.  "Don't 
be  crazy !" 

"He  killed  Dutchy  and  Harkey!"  was  her  hus 
band's  reply;  "and  I  am  going  to  kill  him." 

"But  that  is  wrong,"  she  objected.  "There  is 
the  law." 

He  sneered  his  incredulity  of  the  law's  potency 
in  such  a  region,  but  he  merely  iterated,  dispas 
sionately,  doggedly,  "  He  killed  Dutchy  and  Harkey." 

Long  she  argued  it  with  him,  but  the  argument 


144  THE   UNEXPECTED 

was  one-sided,  for  he  contented  himself  with  re 
peating  again  and  again,  "He  killed  Dutchy  and 
Harkey."  But  she  could  not  escape  from  her 
childhood  training  nor  from  the  blood  that  was  in 
her.  The  heritage  of  law  was  hers,  and  right 
conduct,  to  her,  was  the  fulfilment  of  the  law. 
She  could  see  no  other  righteous  course  to  pursue. 
Hans's  taking  the  law  in  his  own  hands  was  no  more 
justifiable  than  Dennin's  deed.  Two  wrongs  did 
not  make  a  right,  she  contended,  and  there  was 
only  one  way  to  punish  Dennin,  and  that  was  the 
legal  way  arranged  by  society.  At  last  Hans  gave 
in  to  her. 

"All  right,"  he  said.  "Have  it  your  own  way. 
And  to-morrow  or  next  day  look  to  see  him  kill 
you  and  me." 

She  shook  her  head  and  held  out  her  hand  for 
the  shot-gun.  He  started  to  hand  it  to  her,  then 
hesitated. 

"Better  let  me  shoot  him,"  he  pleaded. 

Again  she  shook  her  head,  and  again  he  started 
to  pass  her  the  gun,  when  the  door  opened,  and  an 
Indian,  without  knocking,  came  in.  A  blast  of 
wind  and  flurry  of  snow  came  in  with  him.  They 


THE   UNEXPECTED  145 

turned  and  faced  him,  Hans  still  holding  the  shot 
gun.  The  intruder  took  in  the  scene  without  a 
quiver.  His  eyes  embraced  the  dead  and  wounded 
in  a  sweeping  glance.  No  surprise  showed  in  his 
face,  not  even  curiosity.  Harkey  lay  at  his  feet, 
but  he  took  no  notice  of  him.  So  far  as  he  was 
concerned,  Harkey's  body  did  not  exist. 

"Much  wind/'  the  Indian  remarked  by  way  of 
salutation.  "  All  well  ?  Very  well  ? " 

Hans,  still  grasping  the  gun,  felt  sure  that  the 
Indian  attributed  to  him  the  mangled  corpses.  He 
glanced  appealingly  at  his  wife. 

"Good  morning,  Negook,"  she  said,  her  voice 
betraying  her  effort.  "No,  not  very  well.  Much 
trouble." 

"Good-by,  I  go  now,  much  hurry,"  the  Indian 
said,  and  without  semblance  of  haste,  with  great 
deliberation  stepping  clear  of  a  red  pool  on  the 
floor,  he  opened  the  door  and  went  out. 

The  man  and  woman  looked  at  each  other. 

"He  thinks  we  did  it,"  Hans  gasped,  "that  I  did 


it." 


Edith   was   silent   for   a   space.     Then   she   said, 
briefly,  in  a  businesslike  way: 


146  THE   UNEXPECTED 

"Never  mind  what  he  thinks.  That  will  come 
after.  At  present  we  have  two  graves  to  dig.  But 
first  of  all,  we've  got  to  tie  up  Dennin  so  he  can't 
escape." 

Hans  refused  to  touch  Dennin,  but  Edith  lashed 
him  securely,  hand  and  foot.  Then  she  and  Hans 
went  out  into  the  snow.  The  ground  was  frozen. 
It  was  impervious  to  a  blow  of  the  pick.  They 
first  gathered  wood,  then  scraped  the  snow  away 
and  on  the  frozen  surface  built  a  fire.  When  the 
fire  had  burned  for  an  hour,  several  inches  of  dirt 
had  thawed.  This  they  shovelled  out,  and  then 
built  a  fresh  fire.  Their  descent  into  the  earth 
progressed  at  the  rate  of  two  or  three  inches  an 
hour. 

It  was  hard  and  bitter  work.  The  flurrying  snow 
did  not  permit  the  fire  to  burn  any  too  well,  while 
the  wind  cut  through  their  clothes  and  chilled  their 
bodies.  They  held  but  little  conversation.  The 
wind  interfered  with  speech.  Beyond  wondering 
at  what  could  have  been  Dennin's  motive,  they  re 
mained  silent,  oppressed  by  the  horror  of  the 
tragedy.  At  one  o'clock,  looking  toward  the  cabin, 
Hans  announced  that  he  was  hungry. 


THE   UNEXPECTED  147 

"No,  not  now,  Hans,"  Edith  answered.  "I 
couldn't  go  back  alone  into  that  cabin  the  way  it 
is,  and  cook  a  meal." 

At  two  o'clock  Hans  volunteered  to  go  with  her; 
but  she  held  him  to  his  work,  and  four  o'clock  found 
the  two  graves  completed.  They  were  shallow,  not 
more  than  two  feet  deep,  but  they  would  serve  the 
purpose.  Night  had  fallen.  Hans  got  the  sled, 
and  the  two  dead  men  were  dragged  through  the 
darkness  and  storm  to  their  frozen  sepulchre.  The 
funeral  procession  was  anything  but  a  pageant. 
The  sled  sank  deep  into  the  drifted  snow  and  pulled 
hard.  The  man  and  the  woman  had  eaten  nothing 
since  the  previous  day,  and  were  weak  from  hunger 
and  exhaustion.  They  had  not  the  strength  to 
resist  the  wind,  and  at  times  its  buffets  hurled  them 
off  their  feet.  On  several  occasions  the  sled  was 
overturned,  and  they  were  compelled  to  reload  it 
with  its  sombre  freight.  The  last  hundred  feet  to 
the  graves  was  up  a  steep  slope,  and  this  they  took 
on  all  fours,  like  sled-dogs,  making  legs  of  their 
arms  and  thrusting  their  hands  into  the  snow. 
Even  so,  they  were  twice  dragged  backward  by  the 
weight  of  the  sled,  and  slid  and  fell  down  the  hill, 


148  THE   UNEXPECTED 

the  living  and  the  dead,  the  haul-ropes  and  the  sled, 
in  ghastly  entanglement. 

"  To-morrow  I  will  put  up  head-boards  with 
their  names,"  Hans  said,  when  the  graves  were 
filled  in. 

Edith  was  sobbing.  A  few  broken  sentences  had 
been  all  she  was  capable  of  in  the  way  of  a  funeral 
service,  and  now  her  husband  was  compelled  to 
half-carry  her  back  to  the  cabin. 

Dennin  was  conscious.  He  had  rolled  over  and 
over  on  the  floor  in  vain  efforts  to  free  himself. 
He  watched  Hans  and  Edith  with  glittering  eyes, 
but  made  no  attempt  to  speak.  Hans  still  refused 
to  touch  the  murderer,  and  sullenly  watched  Edith 
drag  him  across  the  floor  to  the  men's  bunk-room. 
But  try  as  she  would,  she  could  not  lift  him  from 
the  floor  into  his  bunk. 

"Better  let  me  shoot  him,  and  we'll  have  no 
more  trouble,"  Hans  said  in  final  appeal. 

Edith  shook  her  head  and  bent  again  to  her  task. 
To  her  surprise  the  body  rose  easily,  and  she  knew 
Hans  had  relented  and  was  helping  her.  Then 
came  the  cleansing  of  the  kitchen.  But  the  floor 
still  shrieked  the  tragedy,  until  Hans  planed  the 


THE   UNEXPECTED  149 

surface  of  the  stained  wood  away  and  with  the 
shavings  made  a  fire  in  the  stove. 

The  days  came  and  went.  There  was  much  of 
darkness  and  silence,  broken  only  by  the  storms 
and  the  thunder  on  the  beach  of  the  freezing  surf. 
Hans  was  obedient  to  Edith's  slightest  order.  All 
his  splendid  initiative  had  vanished.  She  had 
elected  to  deal  with  Dennin  in  her  way,  and  so  he 
left  the  whole  matter  in  her  hands. 

The  murderer  was  a  constant  menace.  At  all 
times  there  was  the  chance  that  he  might  free  him 
self  from  his  bonds,  and  they  were  compelled  to 
guard  him  day  and  night.  The  man  or  the  woman 
sat  always  beside  him,  holding  the  loaded  shot-gun. 
At  first,  Edith  tried  eight-hour  watches,  but  the 
continuous  strain  was  too  great,  and  afterwards 
she  and  Hans  relieved  each  other  every  four  hours. 
As  they  had  to  sleep,  and  as  the  watches  extended 
through  the  night,  their  whole  waking  time  was 
expended  in  guarding  Dennin.  They  had  barely 
time  left  over  for  the  preparation  of  meals  and  the 
getting  of  firewood. 

Since  Negook's  inopportune  visit,  the  Indians  had 
avoided  the  cabin.  Edith  sent  Hans  to  their  cabins 


150  THE   UNEXPECTED 

to  get  them  to  take  Dennin  down  the  coast  in  a 
canoe  to  the  nearest  white  settlement  or  trading 
post,  but  the  errand  was  fruitless.  Then  Edith 
went  herself  and  interviewed  Negook.  He  was 
head  man  of  the  little  village,  keenly  aware  of  his 
responsibility,  and  he  elucidated  his  policy  thoroughly 
in  few  words. 

"It  is  white  man's  trouble,"  he  said,  "not  Si- 
wash  trouble.  My  people  help  you,  then  will  it  be 
Siwash  trouble  too.  When  white  man's  trouble  and 
Siwash  trouble  come  together  and  make  a  trouble, 
it  is  a  great  trouble,  beyond  understanding  and 
without  end.  Trouble  no  good.  My  people  do  no 
wrong.  What  for  they  help  you  and  have  trouble  ?" 

So  Edith  Nelson  went  back  to  the  terrible  cabin 
with  its  endless  alternating  four-hour  watches. 
Sometimes,  when  it  was  her  turn  and  she  sat  by  the 
prisoner,  the  loaded  shot-gun  in  her  lap,  her  eyes 
would  close  and  she  would  doze.  Always  she 
aroused  with  a  start,  snatching  up  the  gun  and 
swiftly  looking  at  him.  These  were  distinct  nervous 
shocks,  and  their  effect  was  not  good  on  her.  Such 
was  her  fear  of  the  man,  that  even  though  she  were 
wide  awake,  if  he  moved  under  the  bedclothes  she 


THE   UNEXPECTED  151 

could  not  repress  the  start  and  the  quick  reach  for 
the  gun. 

She  was  preparing  herself  for  a  nervous  break 
down,  and  she  knew  it.  First  came  a  fluttering  of 
the  eyeballs,  so  that  she  was  compelled  to  close  her 
eyes  for  relief.  A  little  later  the  eyelids  were 
afflicted  by  a  nervous  twitching  that  she  could  not 
control.  To  add  to  the  strain,  she  could  not  forget 
the  tragedy.  She  remained  as  close  to  the  horror 
as  on  the  first  morning  when  the  unexpected  stalked 
into  the  cabin  and  took  possession.  In  her  daily 
ministrations  upon  the  prisoner  she  was  forced  to 
grit  her  teeth  and  steel  herself,  body  and  spirit. 

Hans  was  affected  differently.  He  became 
obsessed  by  the  idea  that  it  was  his  duty  to  kill 
Dennin;  and  whenever  he  waited  upon  the  bound 
man  or  watched  by  him,  Edith  was  troubled  by  the 
fear  that  Hans  would  add  another  red  entry  to  the 
cabin's  record.  Always  he  cursed  Dennin  savagely 
and  handled  him  roughly.  Hans  tried  to  conceal 
his  homicidal  mania,  and  he  would  say  to  his  wife: 
"  By  and  by  you  will  want  me  to  kill  him,  and  then 
I  will  not  kill  him.  It  would  make  me  sick."  But 
more  than  once,  stealing  into  the  room,  when  it 


152  THE   UNEXPECTED 

was  her  watch  off,  she  would  catch  the  two  men 
glaring  ferociously  at  each  other,  wild  animals  the 
pair  of  them,  in  Hans's  face  the  lust  to  kill,  in 
Dennin's  the  fierceness  and  savagery  of  the  cornered 
rat.  "Hans!"  she  would  cry,  "wake  up!"  and 
he  would  come  to  a  recollection  of  himself,  startled 
and  shamefaced  and  unrepentant. 

So  Hans  became  another  factor  in  the  problem 
the  unexpected  had  given  Edith  Nelson  to  solve. 
At  first  it  had  been  merely  a  question  of  right  con 
duct  in  dealing  with  Dennin,  and  right  conduct, 
as  she  conceived  it,  lay  in  keeping  him  a  prisoner 
until  he  could  be  turned  over  for  trial  before  a  proper 
tribunal.  But  now  entered  Hans,  and  she  saw  that 
his  sanity  and  his  salvation  were  involved.  Nor 
was  she  long  in  discovering  that  her  own  strength 
and  endurance  had  become  part  of  the  problem. 
She  was  breaking  down  under  the  strain.  Her 
left  arm  had  developed  involuntary  jerkings  and 
twitchings.  She  spilled  her  food  from  her  spoon, 
and  could  place  no  reliance  in  her  afflicted  arm. 
She  judged  it  to  be  a  form  of  St.  Vitus's  dance,  and 
she  feared  the  extent  to  which  its  ravages  might  go. 
What  if  she  broke  down  ?  And  the  vision  she  had 


THE   UNEXPECTED  153 

of  the  possible  future,  when  the  cabin  might  contain 
only  Dennin  and  Hans,  was  an  added  horror. 

After  the  third  day,  Dennin  had  begun  to  talk. 
His  first  question  had  been,  "What  are  you  going 
to  do  with  me?"  And  this  question  he  repeated 
daily  and  many  times  a  day.  And  always  Edith 
replied  that  he  would  assuredly  be  dealt  with  ac 
cording  to  law.  In  turn,  she  put  a  daily  question 
to  him,  -  "Why  did  you  do  it  ?"  To  this  he  never 
replied.  Also,  he  received  the  question  with  out 
bursts  of  anger,  raging  and  straining  at  the  rawhide 
that  bound  him  and  threatening  her  with  what  he 
would  do  when  he  got  loose,  which  he  said  he  was 
sure  to  do  sooner  or  later.  At  such  times  she  cocked 
both  triggers  of  the  gun,  prepared  to  meet  him  with 
leaden  death  if  he  should  burst  loose,  herself  trem 
bling  and  palpitating  and  dizzy  from  the  tension 
and  shock. 

But  in  time  Dennin  grew  more  tractable.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  he  was  growing  weary  of  his 
unchanging  recumbent  position.  He  began  to  beg 
and  plead  to  be  released.  He  made  wild  promises. 
He  would  do  them  no  harm.  He  would  himself 
go  down  the  coast  and  give  himself  up  to  the  officers 


154  THE   UNEXPECTED 

of  the  law.  He  would  give  them  his  share  of  the 
gold.  He  would  go  away  into  the  heart  of  the 
wilderness,  and  never  again  appear  in  civilization. 
He  would  take  his  own  life  if  she  would  only  free 
him.  His  pleadings  usually  culminated  in  in 
voluntary  raving,  until  it  seemed  to  her  that  he  was 
passing  into  a  fit;  but  always  she  shook  her  head 
and  denied  him  the  freedom  for  which  he  worked 
himself  into  a  passion. 

But  the  weeks  went  by,  and  he  continued  to 
grow  more  tractable.  And  through  it  all  the  weari 
ness  was  asserting  itself  more  and  more.  "I  am 
so  tired,  so  tired,"  he  would  murmur,  rolling  his 
head  back  and  forth  on  the  pillow  like  a  peevish 
child.  At  a  little  later  period  he  began  to  make 
impassioned  pleas  for  death,  to  beg  her  to  kill  him, 
to  beg  Hans  to  put  him  out  of  his  misery  so  that  he 
might  at  least  rest  comfortably. 

The  situation  was  fast  becoming  impossible. 
Edith's  nervousness  was  increasing,  and  she  knew 
her  break-down  might  come  any  time.  She  could 
not  even  get  her  proper  rest,  for  she  was  haunted 
by  the  fear  that  Hans  would  yield  to  his  mania  and 
kill  Dennin  while  she  slept.  Though  January  had 


THE   UNEXPECTED  155 

already  come,  months  would  have  to  elapse  before 
any  trading  schooner  was  even  likely  to  put  into 
the  bay.  Also,  they  had  not  expected  to  winter  in 
the  cabin,  and  the  food  was  running  low;  nor  could 
Hans  add  to  the  supply  by  hunting.  They  were 
chained  to  the  cabin  by  the  necessity  of  guarding 
their  prisoner. 

Something  must  be  done,  and  she  knew  it.  She 
forced  herself  to  go  back  into  a  reconsideration  of 
the  problem.  She  could  not  shake  off  the  legacy 
of  her  race,  the  law  that  was  of  her  blood  and  that 
had  been  trained  into  her.  She  knew  that  what 
ever  she  did  she  must  do  according  to  the  law,  and 
in  the  long  hours  of  watching,  the  shot-gun  on  her 
knees,  the  murderer  restless  beside  her  and  the 
storms  thundering  without,  she  made  original 
sociological  researches  and  worked  out  for  herself 
the  evolution  of  the  law.  It  came  to  her  that  the 
law  was  nothing  more  than  the  judgment  and  the 
will  of  any  group  of  people.  It  mattered  not  how 
large  was  the  group  of  people.  There  were  little 
groups,  she  reasoned,  like  Switzerland,  and  there 
were  big  groups  like  the  United  States.  Also,  she 
reasoned,  it  did  not  matter  how  small  was  the 


156  THE   UNEXPECTED 

group  of  people.  There  might  be  only  ten  thou 
sand  people  in  a  country,  yet  their  collective  judg 
ment  and  will  would  be  the  law  of  that  country. 
Why,  then,  could  not  one  thousand  people  con 
stitute  such  a  group  ?  she  asked  herself.  And  if 
one  thousand,  why  not  one  hundred  ?  Why  not 
fifty  ?  Why  not  five  ?  Why  not  —  two  ? 

She  was  frightened  at  her  own  conclusion,  and 
she  talked  it  over  with  Hans.  At  first  he  could 
not  comprehend,  and  then,  when  he  did,  he  added 
convincing  evidence.  He  spoke  of  miners'  meet 
ings,  where  all  the  men  of  a  locality  came  together 
and  made  the  law  and  executed  the  law.  There 
might  be  only  ten  or  fifteen  men  altogether,  he  said, 
but  the  will  of  the  majority  became  the  law  for  the 
whole  ten  or  fifteen,  and  whoever  violated  that  will 
was  punished. 

Edith  saw  her  way  clear  at  last.  Dennin  must 
hang.  Hans  agreed  with  her.  Between  them  they 
constituted  the  majority  of  this  particular  group. 
It  was  the  group-will  that  Dennin  should  be  hanged. 
In  the  execution  of  this  will  Edith  strove  earnestly 
to  observe  the  customary  forms,  but  the  group  was 
so  small  that  Hans  and  she  had  to  serve  as  witnesses, 


THE   UNEXPECTED  157 

as  jury,  and  as  judges  —  also  as  executioners. 
She  formally  charged  Michael  Dennin  with  the 
murder  of  Dutchy  and  Harkey,  and  the  prisoner 
lay  in  his  bunk  and  listened  to  the  testimony,  first 
of  Hans-,  and  then  of  Edith.  He  refused  to  plead 
guilty  or  not  guilty,  and  remained  silent  when  she 
asked  him  if  he  had  anything  to  say  in  his  own 
defence.  She  and  Hans,  without  leaving  their 
seats,  brought  in  the  jury's  verdict  of  guilty.  Then, 
as  judge,  she  imposed  the  sentence.  Her  voice 
shook,  her  eyelids  twitched,  her  left  arm  jerked,  but 
she  carried  it  out. 

"Michael  Dennin,  in  three  days'  time  you  are  to 
be  hanged  by  the  neck  until  you  are  dead." 

Such  was  the  sentence.  The  man  breathed  an 
unconscious  sigh  of  relief,  then  laughed  defiantly, 
and  said,  "Thin  I'm  thinkin'  the  damn  bunk  won't 
be  achin'  me  back  anny  more,  an'  that's  a  consola 


tion/3 


With  the  passing  of  the  sentence  a  feeling  of 
relief  seemed  to  communicate  itself  to  all  of  them. 
Especially  was  it  noticeable  in  Dennin.  All  sullen- 
ness  and  defiance  disappeared,  and  he  talked 
sociably  with  his  captors,  and  even  with  flashes  of 


158  THE   UNEXPECTED 

his  old-time  wit.  Also,  he  found  great  satisfaction 
in  Edith's  reading  to  him  from  the  Bible.  She  read 
from  the  New  Testament,  and  he  took  keen  interest 
in  the  prodigal  son  and  the  thief  on  the  cross. 

On  the  day  preceding  that  set  for  the  execution, 
when  Edith  asked  her  usual  question,  "Why  did 
you  do  it?"  Dennin  answered,  "'Tis  very  simple. 
I  was  thinkin'  - 

But  she  hushed  him  abruptly,  asked  him  to  wait, 
and  hurried  to  Hans's  bedside.  It  was  his  watch 
off,  and  he  came  out  of  his  sleep,  rubbing  his  eyes 
and  grumbling. 

"Go,"  she  told  him,  "and  bring  up  Negook  and 
one  other  Indian.  Michael's  going  to  confess. 
Make  them  come.  Take  the  rifle  along  and  bring 
them  up  at  the  point  of  it  if  you  have  to." 

Half  an  hour  later  Negook  and  his  uncle,  Hadik- 
wan,  were  ushered  into  the  death  chamber.  They 
came  unwillingly,  Hans  with  his  rifle  herding  them 
along. 

"Negook,"  Edith  said,  "there  is  to  be  no  trouble 
for  you  and  your  people.  Only  is  it  for  you  to  sit 
and  do  nothing  but  listen  and  understand." 

Thus  did    Michael    Dennin,    under   sentence    of 


THE   UNEXPECTED  159 

death,  make  public  confession  of  his  crime.  As  he 
talked,  Edith  wrote  his  story  down,  while  the 
Indians  listened,  and  Hans  guarded  the  door  for 
fear  the  witnesses  might  bolt. 

He  had  not  been  home  to  the  old  country  for 
fifteen  years,  Dennin  explained,  and  it  had  always 
been  his  intention  to  return  with  plenty  of  money 
and  make  his  old  mother  comfortable  for  the  rest 
of  her  days. 

"An'  how  was  I  to  be  doin'  it  on  sixteen  hun 
dred?"  he  demanded.  "What  I  was  after  wantin' 
was  all  the  goold,  the  whole  eight  thousan'.  Thin 
I  cud  go  back  in  style.  What  ud  be  aisier,  thinks 
I  to  myself,  than  to  kill  all  iv  yez,  report  it  at  Skaguay 
for  an  Indian-killin',  an'  thin  pull  out  for  Ireland  ? 
An'  so  I  started  in  to  kill  all  iv  yez,  but,  as  Harkey 
was  fond  of  sayin',  I  cut  out  too  large  a  chunk  an'  fell 
down  on  the  swallowin'  iv  it.  An'  that's  me  con 
fession.  I  did  me  duty  to  the  devil,  an'  now,  God 
willin',  I'll  do  me  duty  to  God." 

"Negook  and  Hadikwan,  you  have  heard  the 
white  man's  words,"  Edith  said  to  the  Indians. 
"His  words  are  here  on  this  paper,  and  it  is  for  you 
to  make  a  sign,  thus,  on  the  paper,  so  that  white 


160  THE   UNEXPECTED 

men  to  come  after  will  know  that  you  have 
heard." 

The  two  Siwashes  put  crosses  opposite  their 
signatures,  received  a  summons  to  appear  on  the 
morrow  with  all  their  tribe  for  a  further  witnessing 
of  things,  and  were  allowed  to  go. 

Dennin's  hands  were  released  long  enough  for 
him  to  sign  the  document.  Then  a  silence  fell  in 
the  room.  Hans  was  restless,  and  Edith  felt  un 
comfortable.  Dennin  lay  on  his  back,  staring 
straight  up  at  the  moss-chinked  roof. 

"An'  now  I'll  do  me  duty  to  God,"  he  murmured. 
He  turned  his  head  toward  Edith.  "Read  to  me," 
he  said,  "from  the  book;"  then  added,  with  a  glint 
of  playfulness,  "Mayhap  'twill  help  me  to  forget 
the  bunk."  . 

The  day  of  the  execution  broke  clear  and  cold. 
The  thermometer  was  down  to  twenty-five  below 
zero,  and  a  chill'  wind  was  blowing  which  drove 
the  frost  through  clothes  and  flesh  to  the  .bon.es. 
For  the  first  time  in  many  weeks  Dennin  stood 
upon  his  feet.  His  muscles  had  remained  inactive 
so  long,  and  he  was  so  out  of  practice  in  maintaining 
an  erect  position,  that  he  could  scarcely  stand. 


THE   UNEXPECTED  161 

He  reeled  back  and  forth,  staggered,  and  clutched 
hold  of  Edith  with  his  bound  hands  for  support. 

"Sure,  an'  it's  dizzy  I  am,"  he  laughed  weakly. 

A  moment  later  he  said,  "An'  it's  glad  I  am  that 
it's  over  with.  That  damn  bunk  would  iv  been  the 
death  iv  me,  I  know." 

When  Edith  put  his  fur  cap  on  his  head  and 
proceeded  to  pull  the  flaps  down  over  his  ears,  he 
laughed  and  said: 

"What  are  you  doin'  that  for?" 

"It's  freezing  cold  outside,"  she  answered. 

"An'  in  tin  minutes'  time  what'll  matter  a  frozen 
ear  or  so  to  poor  Michael  Dennin?"  he  asked. 

She  had  nerved  herself  for  the  last  culminating 
ordeal,  and  his  remark  was  like  a  blow  to  her  sel| 
possession.     So  far,  everything  had  seemed  phantom- 
like,  as  in  a  dream,  but  the  brutal  truth  of  what 
he  had  said  shocked  her  eyes  wide  open  to  the  reality 
of  what  was  taking  place.     Nor  was  her  distress  un 
noticed  by  the  Irishman, 

"I'm  sorry  to  be  troublin'  you  with  me  foolish 
spache,"  he  said  regretfully.  "I  mint  nothin'  by 
it.  'Tis  a  great  day  for  Michael  Dennin,  an'  he's 
as  gay  as  a  lark." 


i62  THE   UNEXPECTED 

He  broke  out  in  a  merry  whistle,  which  quickly 
became  lugubrious  and  ceased. 

"I'm  wishin'  there  was  a  priest,"  he  said  wist 
fully;  then  added  swiftly,  "But  Michael  Dennin's 
too  old  a  campaigner  to  miss  the  luxuries  when  he 
hits  the  trail." 

He  was  so  very  weak  and  unused  to  walking  that 
when  the  door  opened  and  he  passed  outside,  the 
wind  nearly  carried  him  off  his  feet.  Edith  and 
Hans  walked  on  either  side  of  him  and  supported 
him,  the  while  he  cracked  jokes  and  tried  to  keep 
them  cheerful,  breaking  off,  once,  long  enough  to 
arrange  the  forwarding  of  his  share  of  the  gold  to 
his  mother  in  Ireland. 

They  climbed  a  slight  hill  and  came  out  into  an 
open  space  among  the  trees.  Here,  circled  solemnly 
about  a  barrel  that  stood  on  end  in  the  snow,  were 
Negook  and  Hadikwan,  and  all  the  Siwashes  down 
to  the  babies  and  the  dogs,  come  to  see  the  way 
of  the  white  man's  law.  Near  by  was  an  open 
grave  which  Hans  had  burned  into  the  frozen 
earth. 

Dennin  cast  a  practical  eye  over  the  preparations, 
noting  the  graVe,  the  barrel,  the  thickness  of  the 


THE   UNEXPECTED  163 

rope,  and  the  diameter  of  the  limb  over  which  the 
rope  was  passed. 

"Sure,  an'  I  couldn't  iv  done  better  meself,  Hans, 
if  it'd  been  for  you." 

He  laughed  loudly  at  his  own  sally,  but  Hans's 
face  was  frozen  into  a  sullen  ghastliness  that  nothing 
less  than  the  trump  of  doom  could  have  broken. 
Also,  Hans  was  feeling  very  sick.  He  had  not 
realized  the  enormousness  of  the  task  of  put 
ting  a  fellow-man  out  of  the  world.  Edith,  on 
the  other  hand,  had  realized;  but  the  realization 
did  not  make  the  task  any  easier.  She  was  filled 
with  doubt  as  to  whether  she  could  hold  herself  to 
gether  long  enough  to  finish  it.  She  felt  incessant 
impulses  to  scream,  to  shriek,  to  collapse  into  the 
snow,  to  put  her  hands  over  her  eyes  and  turn  and 
run  blindly  away,  into  the  forest,  anywhere,  away. 
It  was  only  by  a  supreme  effort  of  soul  that  she  was 
able  to  keep  upright  and  go  on  and  do  what  she  had 
to  do.  And  in  the  midst  of  it  all  she  was  grateful 
to  Dennin  for  the  way  he  helped  her. 

"Lind  me  a  hand,"  he  said  to  Hans,  with  whose 
assistance  he  managed  to  mount  the  barrel. 

He  bent  over  so  that  Edith  could  adjust  the  rope 


164  THE   UNEXPECTED 

about  his  neck.  Then  he  stood  upright  while  Hans 
drew  the  rope  taut  across  the  overhead  branch. 

"Michael  Dennin,  have  you  anything  to  say?" 
Edith  asked  in  a  clear  voice  that  shook  in  spite  of 
her. 

Dennin  shuffled  his  feet  on  the  barrel,  looked 
down  bashfully  like  a  man  making  his  maiden 
speech,  and  cleared  his  throat. 

"I'm  glad  it's  over  with,"  he  said.  "You've 
treated  me  like  a  Christian,  an'  I'm  thankin'  you 
hearty  for  your  kindness." 

"Then  may  God  receive  you,  a  repentant  sinner," 
she  said. 

"Ay,"  he  answered,  his  deep  voice  as  a  response 
to  her  thin  one,  "may  God  receive  me,  a  repintant 


sinner." 


"Good-by,  Michael,"  she  cried,  and  her  voice 
sounded  desperate. 

She  threw  her  weight  against  the  barrel,  but.it 
did  not  overturn,  ......  .  . 

"Hans!     Quick!     Help  me!"   she  cried  faintly. 

She  could  feel  her  last  strength  going,  and  the 
barrel  resisted  her.  Hans  hurried  to  her,  and  the 
barrel  went  out  from  under  Michael  Dennin. 


THE   UNEXPECTED  165 

She  turned  her  back,  thrusting  her  fingers  into 
her  ears.  Then  she  began  to  laugh,  harshly,  sharply, 
metallically;  and  Hans  was  shocked  as  he  had  not 
been  shocked  through  the  whole  tragedy.  Edith 
Nelson's  break-down  had  come.  Even  in  her 
hysteria  she  knew  it,  and  she  was  glad  that  she  had 
been  able  to  hold  up  under  the  strain  until  every 
thing  had  been  accomplished.  She  reeled  toward 
Hans. 

"Take  me  to  the  cabin,  Hans,"  she  managed  to 
articulate. 

"And  let  me  rest,"  she  added.  "Just  let  me 
rest,  and  rest,  and  rest." 

With  Hans's  arm  around  her,  supporting  her 
weight  and  directing  her  helpless  steps,  she  went 
off  across  the  snow.  But  the  Indians  remained 
solemnly  to  watch  the  working  of  the  white  man's 
law  that  compelled  a  man  to  dance  upon  the  air. 


BROWN   WOLF 


BROWN  WOLF 

SHE  had  delayed,  because  of  the  dew-wet  grass, 
in  order  to  put  on  her  overshoes,  and  when 
she  emerged  from  the  house  found  her  wait 
ing  husband  absorbed  in  the  wonder  of  a  bursting 
almond-bud.     She  sent  a  questing  glance  across  the 
tall  grass  and  in  and  out  among  the  orchard  trees. 

"Where's  Wolf?"  she  asked. 

"He  was  here  a  moment  ago."  Walt  Irvine  drew 
himself  away  with  a  jerk  from  the  metaphysics  and 
poetry  of  the  organic  miracle  of  blossom,  and  sur 
veyed  the  landscape.  "He  was  running  a  rabbit 
the  last  I  saw  of  him." 

"Wolf!  Wolf!  Here  Wolf!"  she  called,  as 
they  left  the  clearing  and  took  the  trail  that  led 
down  through  the  waxen-belled  manzanita  jungle 
to  the  county  road. 

Irvine  thrust  between  his  lips  the  little  finger 
of  each  hand  and  lent  to  her  efforts  a  shrill  whistling. 

She  covered  her  ears  hastily  and  made  a  wry 
grimace. 

169 


170  BROWN  WOLF 

"  My !  for  a  poet,  delicately  attuned  and  all  the 
rest  of  it,  you  can  make  unlovely  noises.  My  ear 
drums  are  pierced.  You  outwhistle  — " 

"Orpheus." 

"I  was  about  to  say  a  street-arab,"  she  concluded 
severely. 

"Poesy  does  not  prevent  one  from  being  prac 
tical  —  at  least  it  doesn't  prevent  me.  Mine  is  no 
futility  of  genius  that  can't  sell  gems  to  the  maga 


zines." 


He  assumed  a  mock  extravagance,  and  went  on : 
"I  am  no  attic  singer,  no  ballroom  warbler. 
And  why  ?  Because  I  am  practical.  Mine  is  no 
squalor  of  song  that  cannot  transmute  itself,  with 
proper  exchange  value,  into  a  flower-crowned  cot 
tage,  a  sweet  mountain-meadow,  a  grove  of  red 
woods,  an  orchard  of  thirty-seven  trees,  one  long 
row  of  blackberries  and  two  short  rows  of  straw 
berries,  to  say  nothing  of  a  quarter  of  a  mile  of 
gurgling  brook.  I  am  a  beauty-merchant,  a  trader 
in  song,  and  I  pursue  utility,  dear  Madge.  I  sing 
a  song,  and  thanks  to  the  magazine  editors  I  trans 
mute  my  song  into  a  waft  of  the  west  wind  sighing 
through  our  redwoods,  into  'a  murmur  of  waters 


BROWN   WOLF  171 

over  mossy  stones  that  sings  back  to  me  another 
song  than  the  one  I  sang  and  yet  the  same  song 
wonderfully  —  er  —  transmuted." 

"O  that  all  your  song-transmutations  were  as 
successful!"  she  laughed. 

"Name  one  that  wasn't." 

"  Those  two  beautiful  sonnets  that  you  trans 
muted  into  the  cow  that  was  accounted  the  worst 
milker  in  the  township." 

"She  was  beautiful-     '  he  began, 

"But  she  didn't  give  milk,"  Madge  interrupted. 

"But  she  was  beautiful,  now,  wasn't  she?"  he 
insisted. 

"And  here's  where  beauty  and  utility  fall  out," 
was  her  reply.  "And  there's  the  Wolf!" 

From  the  thicket-covered  hillside  came  a  crash 
ing  of  underbrush,  and  then,  forty  feet  above  them, 
on  the  edge  of  the  sheer  wall  of  rock,  appeared  a 
wolf's  head  and  shoulders.  His  braced  fore  paws 
dislodged  a  pebble,  and  with  sharp-pricked  ears 
and  peering  eyes  he  watched  the  fall  of  the  pebble 
till  it  struck  at  their  feet.  Then  he  transferred  his 
gaze  and  with  open  mouth  laughed  down  at 
them. 


172  BROWN   WOLF 

"You  Wolf,  you!"  and  "You  blessed  Wolf!" 
the  man  and  woman  called  out  to  him. 

The  ears  flattened  back  and  down  at  the  sound, 
and  the  head  seemed  to  snuggle  under  the  caress 
of  an  invisible  hand. 

They  watched  him  scramble  backward  into  the 
thicket,  then  proceeded  on  their  way.  Several 
minutes  later,  rounding  a  turn  in  the  trail  where 
the  descent  was  less  precipitous,  he  joined  them  in 
the  midst  of  a  miniature  avalanche  of  pebbles  and 
loose  soil.  He  was  not  demonstrative.  A  pat  and 
a  rub  around  the  ears  from  the  man,  and  a  more 
prolonged  caressing  from  the  woman,  and  he  was 
away  down  the  trail  in  front  of  them,  gliding  effort 
lessly  over  the  ground  in  true  wolf  fashion. 

In  build  and  coat  and  brush  he  was  a  huge  timber- 
wolf;  but  the  lie  was  given  to  his  wolfhood  by  his 
color  and  marking.  Ther$  the  dog  unmistakably 
advertised  itself.  No  wolf  was  ever  colored  like 
him.  He  was  brown,  deep  brown,  red-brown,  an 
orgy  of  browns.  Back  and  shoulders  were  a  warm 
brown  that  paled  on  the  sides  and  underneath  to 
a  yellow  that  was  dingy  because  of  the  brown  that 
lingered  in  it.  The  white  of  the  throat  and  paws 


BROWN  WOLF  173 

5 
and    the    spots   over   the    eyes   was    dirty    because 

of  the  persistent  and  ineradicable  brown,  while 
the  eyes  themselves  were  twin  topazes,  golden  and 
brown. 

The  man  and  woman  loved  the  dog  very  much; 
perhaps  this  was  because  it  had  been  such  a  task 
to  win  his  love.  It  had  been  no  easy  matter  when 
he  first  drifted  in  mysteriously  out  of  nowhere 
to  their  little  mountain  cottage.  Footsore  and 
famished,  he  had  killed  a  rabbit  under  their  very 
noses  and  under  their  very  windows,  and  then 
crawled  away  and  slept  by  the  spring  at  the  foot 
of  the  blackberry  bushes.  When  Walt  Irvine  went 
down  to  inspect  the  intruder,  he  was  snarled  at  for 
his  pains,  and  Madge  likewise  was  snarled  at  when 
she  went  down  to  present,  as  a  peace-offering,  a 
,  large  pan  of  bread  and  milk. 

A  most  unsociable  dog-,  he  proved  to  be,  resenting 
all  their  advances,  refusing  to  let  them  lay  hands  on 
him,  menacing  them  with  bared  fangs  and  bristling 
hair.  Nevertheless  he  remained,  sleeping  and  rest 
ing  by  the  spring,  and  eating  the  food  they  gave 
him  after  they  set  it  down  at  a  safe  distance  and 
retreated.  His  wretched  physical  condition  ex- 


174  BROWN  WOLF 

plained  why  he  lingered;  and  when  he  had  recuper 
ated,  after  several  days'  sojourn,  he  disappeared. 

And  this  would  have  been  the  end  of  him,  so  far 
as  Irvine  and  his  wife  were  concerned,  had  not 
Irvine  at  that  particular  time  been  called  away  into 
the  northern  part  of  the  state.  Riding  along  on 
the  train,  near  to  the  line  between  California  and 
Oregon,  he  chanced  to  look  out  of  the  window  and 
saw  his  unsociable  guest  sliding  along  the  wagon 
road,  brown  and  wolfish,  tired  yet  tireless,  dust- 
covered  and  soiled  with  two  hundred  miles  of  travel. 

Now  Irvine  was  a  man  of  impulse,  a  poet.  He 
got  off  the  train  at  the  next  station,  bought  a  piece 
of  meat  at  a  butcher  shop,  and  captured  the  vagrant 
on  the  outskirts  of  the  town.  The  return  trip  was 
made  in  the  baggage  car,  and  so  Wolf  came  a  second 
time  to  the  mountain  cottage.  Here  he  was  tied  up 
for  a  week  and  made  love  to  by  the  man  and  woman. 
But  it  was  very  circumspect  love-making.  Re 
mote  and  alien  as  a  traveller  from  another  planet, 
he  snarled  down  their  soft-spoken  love-words.  He 
never  barked.  In  all  the  time  they  had  him  he 
was  never  known  to  bark. 

To   win    him    became    a    problem.     Irvine   liked 


BROWN   WOLF  175 

problems.  He  had  a  metal  plate  made,  on  which 
was  stamped :  RETURN  TO  WALT  IRVINE,  GLEN 
ELLEN,  SONOMA  COUNTY,  CALIFORNIA.  This  was 
riveted  to  a  collar  and  strapped  about  the  dog's 
neck.  Then  he  was  turned  loose,  and  promptly 
he  disappeared.  A  day  later  came  a  telegram 
from  Mendocino  County.  In  twenty  hours  he  had 
made  over  a  hundred  miles  to  the  north,  and  was 
still  going  when  captured. 

He  came  back  by  Wells  Fargo  Express,  was  tied 
up  three  days,  and  was  loosed  on  the  fourth  and 
lost.  This  time  he  gained  southern  Oregon  before 
he  was  caught  and  returned.  Always,  as  soon  as  he 
received  his  liberty,  he  fled  away,  and  always  he 
fled  north.  He  was  possessed  of  an  obsession  that 
drove  him  north.  The  homing  instinct,  Irvine  called 
it,  after  he  had  expended  the  selling  price  of  a  son 
net  in  getting  the  animal  back  from  northern  Oregon. 

Another  time  the  brown  wanderer  succeeded  in 
traversing  half  the  length  of  California,  all  of  Oregon, 
and  most  of  Washington,  before  he  was  picked  up 
and  returned  "Collect."  A  remarkable  thing  was  the 
speed  with  which  he  travelled.  Fed  up  and  rested, 
as  soon  as  he  was  loosed  he  devoted  all  his  energy 


176  BROWN  WOLF 

to  getting  over  the  ground.  On  the  first  day's  run 
he  was  known  to  cover  as  high  as  a  hundred  and 
fifty  miles,  and  after  that  he  would  average  a  hun 
dred  miles  a  day  until  caught.  He  always  arrived 
back  lean  and  hungry  and  savage,  and  always  de 
parted  fresh  and  vigorous,  cleaving  his  way  north 
ward  in  response  to  some  prompting  of  his  being 
that  no  one  could  understand. 

But  at  last,  after  a  futile  year  of  flight,  he  accepted 
the  inevitable  and  elected  to  remain  at  the  cottage 
where  first  he  had  killed  the  rabbit  and  slept  by  the 
spring.  Even  after  that,  a  long  time  elapsed  before 
the  man  and  woman  succeeded  in  patting  him.  It 
was  a  great  victory,  for  they  alone  were  allowed  to 
put  hands  on  him.  He  was  fastidiously  exclusive, 
and  no  guest  at  the  cottage  ever  succeeded  in  making 
up  to  him.  A  low  growl  greeted  such  approach; 
if  any  one  had  the  hardihood  to  come  nearer,  the 
lips  lifted,  the  naked  fangs  appeared,  and  the  growl 
became  a  snarl  —  a  snarl  so  terrible  and  malignant 
that  it  awed  the  stoutest  of  them,  as  it  likewise  awed 
the  farmers'  dogs  that  knew  ordinary  dog-snarling, 
but  had  never  seen  wolf-snarling  before. 

He  was  without  antecedents.     His  history  began 


BROWN   WOLF  177 

with  Walt  and  Madge.  He  had  come  up  from  the 
south,  but  never  a  clew  did  they  get  of  the  owner 
from  whom  he  had  evidently  fled.  Mrs.  Johnson, 
their  nearest  neighbor  and  the  one  who  supplied 
them  with  milk,  proclaimed  him  a  Klondike  dog. 
Her  brother  was  burrowing  for  frozen  pay-streaks 
in  that  far  country,  and  so  she  constituted  herself 
an  authority  on  the  subject. 

But  they  did  not  dispute  her.  There  were  the  tips 
of  Wolf's  ears,  obviously  so  severely  frozen  at  some 
time  that  they  would  never  quite  heal  again.  Be 
sides,  he  looked  like  the  photographs  of  the  Alaskan 
dogs  they  saw  published  in  magazines  and  news 
papers.  They  often  speculated  over  his  past,  and 
tried  to  conjure  up  (from  what  they  had  read  and 
heard)  what  his  northland  life  had  been.  That 
the  northland  still  drew  him,  they  knew;  for  at 
night  they  sometimes  heard  him  crying  softly; 
and  when  the  north  wind  blew  and  the  bite  of  frost 
was  in  the  air,  a  great  restlessness  would  come  upon 
him  and  he  would  lift  a  mournful  lament  which  they 
knew  to  be  the  long  wolf-howl.  Yet  he  never 
barked.  No  provocation  was  great  enough  to  draw 
from  him  that  canine  cry. 

N 


178'  BROWN   WOLF 

Long  discussion  they  had,  during  the  time  of 
winning  him,  as  to  whose  dog  he  was.  Each  claimed 
him,  and  each  proclaimed  loudly  any  expression  of 
affection  made  by  him.  But  the  man  had  the  better 
of  it  at  first,  chiefly  because  he  was  a  man.  It  was 
patent  that  Wolf  had  had  no  experience  with  women. 
He  did  not  understand  women.  Madge's  skirts 
were  something  he  never  quite  accepted.  The 
swish  of  them  was  enough  to  set  him  a-bristle  with 
suspicion,  and  on  a  windy  day  she  could  not  approach 
him  at  all. 

On  the  other  hand,  it  was  Madge  who  fed  him; 
also  it  was  she  who  ruled  the  kitchen,  and  it  was  by 
her  favor,  and  her  favor  alone,  that  he  was  permitted 
to  come  within  that  sacred  precinct.  It  was  because 
of  these  things  that  she  bade  fair  to  overcome  the 
handicap  of  her  garments.  Then  it  was  that  Walt 
put  forth  special  effort,  making  it  a  practice  to  have 
Wolf  lie  at  his  feet  while  he  wrote,  and,  between 
petting  and  talking,  losing  much  time  from  his 
work.  Walt  won  in  the  end,  and  his  victory  was 
most  probably  due  to  the  fact  that  he  was  a  man, 
though  Madge  averred  that  they  would  have  had 
another  quarter  of  a  mile  of  gurgling  brook,  and  at 


BROWN   WOLF  179 

least  two  west  winds  sighing  through  their  redwoods, 
had  Walt  properly  devoted  his  energies  to  song- 
transmutation  and  left  Wolf  alone  to  exercise  a 
natural  taste  and  an  unbiassed  judgment. 

"It's  about  time  I  heard  from  those  triolets," 
Walt  said,  after  a  silence  of  five  minutes,  during 
which  they  had  swung  steadily  down  the  trail. 
"There'll  be  a  check  at  the  post-office,  I  know,  and 
we'll  transmute  it  into  beautiful  buckwheat  flour, 
a  gallon  of  maple  syrup,  and  a  new  pair  of 
overshoes  for  you." 

"And  into  beautiful  milk  from  Mrs.  Johnson's 
beautiful  cow,"  Madge  added.  "To-morrow's  the 
first  of  the  month,  you  know." 

Walt  scowled  unconsciously;  then  his  face  bright 
ened,  and  he  clapped  his  hand  to  his  breast 
pocket. 

"Never  mind.  I  have  here  a  nice  beautiful  new 
cow,  the  best  milker  in  California." 

"When  did  you  write  it?"  she  demanded  eagerly. 
Then,  reproachfully,  "And  you  never  showed  it  to 


me." 


"I  saved  it  to  read  to  you  on  the  way  to  the  post- 
office,  in  a  spot  remarkably  like  this  one,"  he  an- 


i8o  BROWN   WOLF 

swered,  indicating,  with  a  wave  of  his  hand,  a  dry 
log  on  which  to  sit. 

A  tiny  stream  flowed  out  of  a  dense  fern-brake, 
slipped  down  a  mossy-lipped  stone,  and  ran  across 
the  path  at  their  feet.  From  the  valley  arose  the 
mellow  song  of  meadow-larks,  while  about  them,  in 
and  out,  through  sunshine  and  shadow,  fluttered 
great  yellow  butterflies. 

Up  from  below  came  another  sound  that  broke 
in  upon  Walt  reading  softly  from  his  manuscript. 
It  was  a  crunching  of  heavy  feet,  punctuated  now 
and  again  by  the  clattering  of  a  displaced  stone. 
As  Walt  finished  and  looked  to  his  wife  for  approval, 
a  man  came  into  view  around  the  turn  of  the  trail. 
He  was  bare-headed  and  sweaty.  With  a  hand 
kerchief  in  one  hand  he  mopped  his  face,  while  in 
the  other  hand  he  carried  a  new  hat  and  a  wilted 
starched  collar  which  he  had  removed  from  his  neck. 
He  was  a  well-built  man,  and  his  muscles  seemed 
on  the  point  of  bursting  out  of  the  painfully  new  and 
ready-made  black  clothes  he  wore. 

"Warm  day,"  Walt  greeted  him.  Walt  believed 
in  country  democracy,  and  never  missed  an  oppor 
tunity  to  practise  it. 


BROWN  WOLF  181 

The  man  paused  and  nodded. 

"I  guess  I  ain't  used  much  to  the  warm,"  he 
vouchsafed  half  apologetically.  "I'm  more  accus 
tomed  to  zero  weather." 

"You  don't  find  any  of  that  in  this  country," 
Walt  laughed. 

"Should  say  not,"  the  man  answered.  "An' 
I  ain't  here  a-lookin'  for  it  neither.  I'm  tryin'  to 
find  my  sister.  Mebbe  you  know  where  she  lives. 
Her  name's  Johnson,  Mrs.  William  Johnson." 

"You're  not  her  Klondike  brother!"  Madge 
cried,  her  eyes  bright  with  interest,  "about  whom 
we've  heard  so  much?" 

"Yes'm,  that's  me,"  he  answered  modestly. 
"My  name's  Miller,  Skiff  Miller.  I  just  thought 
I'd  s'prise  her." 

"You  are  on  the  right  track  then.  Only  you've 
come  by  the  foot-path."  Madge  stood  up  to  direct 
him,  pointing  up  the  canyon  a  quarter  of  a  mile. 
"You  see  that  blasted  redwood?  Take  the  little 
trail  turning  off  to  the  right.  It's  the  short  cut  to 
her  house.  You  can't  miss  it." 

"Yes'm,  thank  you,  ma'am,"  he  said. 

He    made    tentative    efforts    to    go,    but    seemed 


182  BROWN  WOLF 

awkwardly  rooted  to  the  spot.  He  was  gazing  at 
her  with  an  open  admiration  of  which  he  was  quite 
unconscious,  and  which  was  drowning,  along  with 
him,  in  the  rising  sea  of  embarrassment  in  which 
he  floundered. 

"We'd  like  to  hear  you  tell  about  the  Klondike," 
Madge  said.  "Mayn't  we  come  over  some  day 
while  you  are  at  your  sister's  ?  Or,  better  yet, 
won't  you  come  over  and  have  dinner  with  us?" 

"Yes'm,  thank  you,  ma'am,"  he  mumbled 
mechanically.  Then  he  caught  himself  up  and 
added:  "I  ain't  stoppin'  long.  I  got  to  be  pullin' 
north  again.  I  go  out  on  to-night's  train.  You 
see,  I've  got  a  mail  contract  with  the  government." 

When  Madge  had  said  that  it  was  too  bad,  he 
made  another  futile  effort  to  go.  But  he  could  not 
take  his  eyes  from  her  face.  He  forgot  his  embar 
rassment  in  his  admiration,  and  it  was  her  turn  to 
flush  and  feel  uncomfortable. 

It  was  at  this  juncture,  when  Walt  had  just  de 
cided  it  was  time  for  him  to  be  saying  something  to 
relieve  the  strain,  that  Wolf,  who  had  been  away 
nosing  through  the  brush,  trotted  wolf-like  into 
view. 


BROWN   WOLF  183 

Skiff  Miller's  abstraction  disappeared.  The 
pretty  woman  before  him  passed  out  of  his  field  of 
vision.  He  had  eyes  only  for  the  dog,  and  a  great 
wonder  came  into  his  face. 

"Well,  Til  be  damned!"  he  enunciated  slowly 
and  solemnly. 

He  sat  down  ponderingly  on  the  log,  leaving 
Madge  standing.  At  the  sound  of  his  voice,  Wolfs 
ears  had  flattened  down,  then  his  mouth  had  opened 
in  a  laugh.  He  trotted  slowly  up  to  the  stranger 
and  first  smelled  his  hands,  then  licked  them  with 
his  tongue. 

Skiff  Miller  patted  the  dog's  head,  and  slowly 
and  solemnly  repeated,  "Well,  I'll  be  damned!" 

"Excuse  me,  ma'am,"  he  said  the  next  moment, 
"I  was  just  s'prised  some,  that  was  all." 

"We're  surprised,  too,"  she  answered  lightly. 
"We  never  saw  Wolf  make  up  to  a  stranger  before." 

"Is  that  what  you  call  him  —  Wolf?"  the  man 
asked. 

Madge  nodded.  "But  I  can't  understand  his 
friendliness  toward  you  —  unless  it's  because  you're 
from  the  Klondike.  He's  a  Klondike  dog,  you 
know." 


i84  BROWN  WOLF 

"Yes'm,"  Miller  said  absently.  He  lifted  one 
of  Wolf's  fore  legs  and  examined  the  foot-pads, 
pressing  them  and  denting  them  with  his  thumb. 
"Kind  of  soft,"  he  remarked.  "He  ain't  been  on 
trail  for  a  long  time." 

"I  say,"  Walt  broke  in,  "it  is  remarkable  the  way 
he  lets  you  handle  him." 

Skiff  Miller  arose,  no  longer  awkward  with  ad 
miration  of  Madge,  and  in  a  sharp,  businesslike 
manner  asked,  "How  long  have  you  had  him?" 

But  just  then  the  dog,  squirming  and  rubbing 
against  the  newcomer's  legs,  opened  his  mouth 
and  barked.  It  was  an  explosive  bark,  brief  and 
joyous,  but  a  bark. 

"That's  a  new  one  on  me,"  Skiff  Miller  remarked. 

Walt  and  Madge  stared  at  each  other.  The 
miracle  had  happened.  Wolf  had  barked. 

"It's  the  first  time  he  ever  barked,"  Madge  said. 

"First  time  I  ever  heard  him,  too,"  Miller  volun 
teered. 

Madge  smiled  at  him.  The  man  was  evidently 
a  humorist. 

"Of  course,"  she  said,  "since  you  have  only  seen 
him  for  five  minutes." 


BROWN    WOLF  185 

Skiff  Miller  looked  at  her  sharply,  seeking  in  her 
face  the  guile  her  words  had  led  him  to  suspect. 

"I  thought  you  understood,"  he  said  slowly. 
"I  thought  you'd  tumbled  to  it  from  his  makin' 
up  to  me.  He's  my  dog.  His  name  ain't  Wolf. 
It's  Brown." 

"Oh,  Walt!"  was  Madge's  instinctive  cry  to  her 
husband. 

Walt  was  on  the  defensive  at  once. 

"How  do  you  know  he's  your  dog?"  he  de 
manded. 

"Because  he  is,"  was  the  reply. 

"Mere  assertion,"  Walt  said  sharply. 

In  his  slow  and  pondering  way,  Skiff  Miller 
looked  at  him,  then  asked,  with  a  nod  of  his  head 
toward  Madge: 

"How  d'you  know  she's  your  wife?  You  just 
say,  'Because  she  is,'  and  I'll  say  it's  mere  assertion. 
The  dog's  mine.  I  bred  'm  an'  raised  'm,  an'  I 
guess  I  ought  to  know.  Look  here.  I'll  prove  it 
to  you." 

Skiff  Miller  turned  to  the  dog.  "Brown!"  His 
voice  rang  out  sharply,  and  at  the  sound  the  dog's 
ears  flattened  down  as  to  a  caress.  "Gee!"  The 


i86  BROWN  WOLF 

dog  made  a  swinging  turn  to  the  right.  "Now 
mush-on!"  And  the  dog  ceased  his  swing  abruptly 
and  started  straight  ahead,  halting  obediently  at 
command. 

"I  can  do  it  with  whistles,"  Skiff  Miller  said 
proudly.  "He  was  my  lead  dog." 

"  But  you  are  not  going  to  take  him  away  with 
you?"  Madge  asked  tremulously. 

The  man  nodded. 

"Back  into  that  awful  Klondike  world  of  surfer- 
ing?" 

He  nodded  and  added:  "Oh,  it  ain't  so  bad  as 
all  that.  Look  at  me.  Pretty  healthy  specimen, 
ain't  I?" 

"  But  the  dogs  !  The  terrible  hardship,  the  heart 
breaking  toil,  the  starvation,  the  frost !  Oh,  I've 
read  about  it  and  I  know." 

"I  nearly  ate  him  once,  over  on  Little  Fish  River," 
Miller  volunteered  grimly.  "  If  I  hadn't  got  a  moose 
that  day  was  all  that  saved  'm." 

"I'd  have  died  first!"  Madge  cried. 

"Things  is  different  down  here,"  Miller  ex 
plained.  "You  don't  have  to  eat  dogs.  You 
think  different  just  about  the  time  you're  all  in. 


BROWN   WOLF  187 

You've  never  ben  all  in,  so  you  don't  know  any 
thing  about  it." 

"That's  the  very  point,"  she  argued  warmly. 
"Dogs  are  not  eaten  in  California.  Why  not  leave 
him  here  ?  He  is  happy.  He'll  never  want  for 
food  —  you  know  that.  He'll  never  suffer  from 
cold  and  hardship.  Here  all  is  softness  and  gentle 
ness.  Neither  the  human  nor  nature  is  savage. 
He  will  never  know  a  whip-lash  again.  And  as 
for  the  weather  —  why,  it  never  snows  here." 

"But  it's  all-fired  hot  in  summer,  beggin'  your 
pardon,"  Skiff  Miller  laughed. 

"But  you  do  not  answer,"  Madge  continued 
passionately.  "What  have  you  to  offer  him  in 
that  northland  life?" 

"Grub,  when  I've  got  it,  and  that's  most  of  the 
time,"  came  the  answer. 

"And  the  rest  of  the  time  ?" 

"No  grub." 

"And  the  work?" 

"Yes,  plenty  of  work,"  Miller  blurted  out  im 
patiently.  "Work  without  end,  an'  famine,  an' 
frost,  an  all  the  rest  of  the  miseries  —  that's  what 
he'll  get  when  he  comes  with  me.  But  he  likes  it. 


1 88  BROWN   WOLF 

He  is  used  to  it.  He  knows  that  life.  He  was  born 
to  it  an'  brought  up  to  it.  An'  you  don't  know  any 
thing  about  it.  You  don't  know  what  you're  talk 
ing  about.  That's  where  the  dog  belongs,  and 
that's  where  he'll  be  happiest." 

"The  dog  doesn't  go,"  Walt  announced  in  a 
determined  voice.  "So  there  is  no  need  of  further 
discussion." 

"What's  that?"  Skiff  Miller  demanded,  his  brows 
lowering  and  an  obstinate  flush  of  blood  reddening 
his  forehead. 

"I  said  the  dog  doesn't  go,  and  that  settles  it. 
I  don't  believe  he's  your  dog.  You  may  have  seen 
him  sometime.  You  may  even  sometime  have 
driven  him  for  his  owner.  But  his  obeying  the 
ordinary  driving  commands  of  the  Alaskan  trail 
is  no  demonstration  that  he  is  yours.  Any  dog  in 
Alaska  would  obey  you  as  he  obeyed.  Besides, 
he  is  undoubtedly  a  valuable  dog,  as  dogs  go  in 
Alaska,  and  that  is  sufficient  explanation  of  your 
desire  to  get  possession  of  him.  Anyway,  you've 
got  to  prove  property." 

Skiff  Miller,  cool  and  collected,  the  obstinate 
flush  a  trifle  deeper  on  his  forehead,  his  huge  muscles 


BROWN   WOLF  189 

bulging  under  the  black  cloth  of  his  coat,  carefully 
looked  the  poet  up  and  down  as  though  measuring 
the  strength  of  his  slenderness. 

The  Klondiker's  face  took  on  a  contemptuous 
expression  as  he  said  finally,  "I  reckon  there's 
nothin'  in  sight  to  prevent  me  takin'  the  dog  right 
here  an'  now." 

Walt's  face  reddened,  and  the  striking-muscles 
of  his  arms  and  shoulders  seemed  to  stiffen  and  grow 
tense.  His  wife  fluttered  apprehensively  into  the 
breach. 

"Maybe  Mr.  Miller  is  right,"  she  said.  "I  am 
afraid  that  he  is.  Wolf  does  seem  to  know  him, 
and  certainly  he  answers  to  the  name  of  *  Brown/ 
He  made  friends  with  him  instantly,  and  you  know 
that's  something  he  never  did  with  anybody  before. 
Besides,  look  at  the  way  he  barked.  He  was  just 
bursting  with  joy.  Joy  over  what  ?  Without  doubt 
at  finding  Mr.  Miller." 

Walt's  striking-muscles  relaxed,  and  his  shoulders 
seemed  to  droop  with  hopelessness. 

"I  guess  you're  right,  Madge,"  he  said.  "Wolf 
isn't  Wolf,  but  Brown,  and  he  must  belong  to  Mr. 
Miller." 


i9o  BROWN   WOLF 

"Perhaps  Mr.  Miller  will  sell  him,"  she  sug 
gested.  "We  can  buy  him." 

Skiff  Miller  shook  his  head,  no  longer  belligerent, 
but  kindly,  quick  to  be  generous  in  response  to  gen- 
erousness 

"I  had  five  dogs,"  he  said,  casting  about  for  the 
easiest  way  to  temper  his  refusal.  "He  was  the 
leader.  They  was  the  crack  team  of  Alaska.  Nothin' 
could  touch  'em.  In  1898  I  refused  five  thousand 
dollars  for  the  bunch.  Dogs  was  high,  then,  any 
way;  but  that  wasn't  what  made  the  fancy  price. 
It  was  the  team  itself.  Brown  was  the  best  in  the 
team.  That  winter  I  refused  twelve  hundred  for 
'm.  I  didn't  sell  'm  then,  an'  I  ain't  a-sellin'  'm 
now.  Besides,  I  think  a  mighty  lot  of  that  dog. 
I've  ben  lookin'  for  'm  for  three  years.  It  made 
me  fair  sick  when  I  found  he'd  ben  stole  —  not  the 
value  of  him,  but  the  —  well,  I  liked  'm  like  hell, 
that's  all,  beggin'  your  pardon.  I  couldn't  believe 
my  eyes  when  I  seen  'm  just  now.  I  thought  I  was 
dreamin'.  It  was  too  good  to  be  true.  Why,  I 
was  his  wet-nurse.  I  put  'm  to  bed,  snug  every 
night.  His  mother  died,  and  I  brought  'm  up  on 
condensed  milk  at  two  dollars  a  can  when  I  couldn't 


BROWN   WOLF  191 

afford  it  in  my  own  coffee.  He  never  knew  any 
mother  but  me.  He  used  to  suck  my  finger  regular, 
the  darn  little  cuss  —  that  finger  right  there!" 

And  Skiff  Miller,  too  overwrought  for  speech, 
held  up  a  fore  finger  for  them  to  see. 

"That  very  finger,"  he  managed  to  articulate, 
as  though  it  somehow  clinched  the  proof  of  owner 
ship  and  the  bond  of  affection. 

He  was  still  gazing  at  his  extended  finger  when 
Madge  began  to  speak. 

"But  the  dog,"  she  said.  "You  haven't  con 
sidered  the  dog." 

Skiff  Miller  looked  puzzled. 

"Have  you  thought  about  him?"  she  asked. 

"Don't  know  what  you're  drivin'  at,"  was  the 
y,  response. 

"Maybe  the  dog  has  some  choice  in  the  matter," 
Madge  went  on.  "Maybe  he  has  his  likes  and 
desires.  You  have  not  considered  him.  You  give 
him  no  choice.  It  has  never  entered  your  mind 
that  possibly  he  might  prefer  California  to  Alaska. 
You  consider  only  what  you  like.  You  do  with 
him  as  you  would  with  a  sack  of  potatoes  or  a  bale 
of  hay." 


i92  BROWN   WOLF 

This  was  a  new  way  of  looking  at  it,  and  Miller 
was  visibly  impressed  as  he  debated  it  in  his  mind. 
Madge  took  advantage  of  his  indecision. 

"If  you  really  love  him,  what  would  be  happiness 
to  him  would  be  your  happiness  also,"  she  urged. 

SkifF  Miller  continued  to  debate  with  himself, 
and  Madge  stole  a  glance  of  exultation  to  her  hus 
band,  who  looked  back  warm  approval. 

"What  do  you  think?"  the  Klondiker  suddenly 
demanded. 

It  was  her  turn  to  be  puzzled.  "What  do  you 
mean  ?"  she  asked. 

"D'ye  think  he'd  sooner  stay  in  California?" 

She  nodded  her  head  with  positiveness.  "I  am 
sure  of  it." 

SkifF  Miller  again  debated  with  himself,  though 
this  time  aloud,  at  the  same  time  running  his  gaze 
in  a  judicial  way  over  the  mooted  animal. 

"He  was  a  good  worker.  He's  done  a  heap  of 
work  for  me.  He  never  loafed  on  me,  an'  he  was 
a  joe-dandy  at  hammerin'  a  raw  team  into  shape. 
He's  got  a  head  on  him.  He  can  do  everything  but 
talk.  He  knows  what  you  say  to  him.  Look  at  'm 
now.  He  knows  we're  talkin'  about  him." 


BROWN   WOLF  193 

The  dog  was  lying  at  Skiff  Miller's  feet,  head 
close  down  on  paws,  ears  erect  and  listening,  and 
eyes  that  were  quick  and  eager  to  follow  the  sound 
of  speech  as  it  fell  from  the  lips  of  first  one  and  then 
the  other. 

"An'  there's  a  lot  of  work  in  'm  yet.  He's  good 
for  years  to  come.  An'  I  do  like  him.  I  like  him 
like  hell." 

Once  or  twice  after  that  Skiff  Miller  opened 
his  mouth  and  closed  it  again  without  speaking. 
Finally  he  said: 

"I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do.  Your  remarks,  ma'am, 
has  some  weight  in  them.  The  dog's  worked  hard, 
and  maybe  he's  earned  a  soft  berth  an'  has  got  a 
right  to  choose.  Anyway,  we'll  leave  it  up  to  him. 
Whatever  he  says,  goes.  You  people  stay  right 
here  settin'  down.  I'll  say  good-by  and  walk  off 
casual-like.  If  he  wants  to  stay,  he  can  stay.  If  he 
wants  to  come  with  me,  let  'm  come.  I  won't 
call  'm  to  come  an'  don't  you  call  'm  to  come 
back."  . 

He  looked  with  sudden  suspicion  at  Madge,  and 
added,  "Only  you  must  play  fair.  No  persuadin' 

after  my  back  is  turned." 
y 
° 


i94  BROWN   WOLF 

"We'll  play  fair,"  Madge  began,  but  Skiff  Miller 
broke  in  on  her  assurances. 

"I  know  the  ways  of  women,"  he  announced. 
"Their  hearts  is  soft.  When  their  hearts  is  touched 
they're  likely  to  stack  the  cards,  look  at  the  bottom 
of  the  deck,  an'  lie  like  the  devil  —  beggin'  your 
pardon,  ma'am.  I'm  only  discoursin'  about  women 
in  general." 

"I  don't  know  how  to  thank  you,"  Madge  qua 
vered. 

"I  don't  see  as  you've  got  any  call  to  thank  me," 
he  replied.  "Brown  ain't  decided  yet.  Now  you 
won't  mind  if  I  go  away  slow  ?  It's  no  more'n 
fair,  seein'  I'll  be  out  of  sight  inside  a  hundred  yards." 

Madge  agreed,  and  added,  "And  I  promise  you 
faithfully  that  we  won't  do  anything  to  influence 
him." 

"Well,  then,  I  might  as  well  be  gettin'  along," 
Skiff  Miller  said  in  the  ordinary  tones  of  one  de 
parting. 

At  this  change  in  his  voice,  Wolf  lifted  his  head 
quickly,  and  still  more  quickly  got  to  his  feet  when 
the  man  and  woman  shook  hands.  He  sprang  up 
on  his  hind  legs,  resting  his  fore  paws  on  her  hip 


BROWN   WOLF  195 

and  at  the  same  time  licking  Skiff  Miller's  hand. 
When  the  latter  shook  hands  with  Walt,  Wolf  re 
peated  his  act,  resting  his  weight  on  Walt  and 
licking  both  men's  hands. 

"It  ain't  no  picnic,  I  can  tell  you  that,"  were  the 
Klondiker's  last  words,  as  he  turned  and  went 
slowly  up  the  trail. 

For  the  distance  of  twenty  feet  Wolf  watched  him 
go,  himself  all  eagerness  and  expectancy,  as  though 
waiting  for  the  man  to  turn  and  retrace  his  steps. 
Then,  with  a  quick  low  whine,  Wolf  sprang  after 
him,  overtook  him,  caught  his  hand  between  his 
teeth  with  reluctant  tenderness,  and  strove  gently 
to  make  him  pause. 

Failing  in  this,  Wolf  raced  back  to  where  Walt 
Irvine  sat,  catching  his  coat-sleeve  in  his  teeth  and 
trying  vainly  to  drag  him  after  the  retreating 
man. 

Wolf's  perturbation  began  to  wax.  He  desired 
ubiquity.  He  wanted  to  be  in  two  places  at  the  same 
time,  with  the  old  master  and  the  new,  and  steadily 
the  distance  between  them  was  increasing.  He  sprang 
about  excitedly,  making  short  nervous  leaps  and 
twists,  now  toward  one,  now  toward  the  other,  in 


196  BROWN   WOLF 

painful  indecision,  not  knowing  his  own  mind, 
desiring  both  and  unable  to  choose,  uttering  quick 
sharp  whines  and  beginning  to  pant. 

He  sat  down  abruptly  on  his  haunches,  thrusting 
his  nose  upward,  the  mouth  opening  and  closing 
with  jerking  movements,  each  time  opening  wider. 
These  jerking  movements  were  in  unison  with  the 
recurrent  spasms  that  attacked  the  throat,  each 
spasm  severer  and  more  intense  than  the  preceding 
one.  And  in  accord  with  jerks  and  spasms  the 
larynx  began  to  vibrate,  at  first  silently,  accom 
panied  by  the  rush  of  air  expelled  from  the  lungs, 
then  sounding  a  low,  deep  note,  the  lowest  in  the 
register  of  the  human  ear.  All  this  was  the  nervous 
and  muscular  preliminary  to  howling. 

But  just  as  the  howl  was  on  the  verge  of  bursting 
from  the  full  throat,  the  wide-opened  mouth  was 
closed,  the  paroxysms  ceased,  and  he  looked  long 
and  steadily  at  the  retreating  man.  Suddenly 
Wolf  turned  his  head,  and  over  his  shoulder  just 
as  steadily  regarded  Walt.  The  appeal  was  un 
answered.  Not  a  word  nor  a  sign  did  the  dog  re 
ceive,  no  suggestion  and  no  clew  as  to  what  his 
conduct  should  be. 


BROWN  WOLF  197 

A  glance  ahead  to  where  the  old  master  was  near- 
ing  the  curve  of  the  trail  excited  him  again.  He 
sprang  to  his  feet  with  a  whine,  and  then,  struck  by 
a  new  idea,  turned  his  attention  to  Madge.  Hith 
erto  he  had  ignored  her,  but  now,  both  masters 
failing  him,  she  alone  was  left.  He  went  over  to 
her  and  snuggled  his  head  in  her  lap,  nudging  her 
arm  with  his  nose  —  an  old  trick  of  his  when  beg 
ging  for  favors.  He  backed  away  from  her  and 
began  writhing  and  twisting  playfully,  curvetting 
and  prancing,  half  rearing  and  striking  his  fore 
paws  to  the  earth,  struggling  with  all  his  body,  from 
the  wheedling  eyes  and  flattening  ears  to  the  wagging 
tail,  to  express  the  thought  that  was  in  him  and  that 
was  denied  him  utterance. 

This,  too,  he  soon  abandoned.  He  was  depressed 
by  the  coldness  of  these  humans  who  had  never 
been  cold  before.  No  response  could  he  draw 
from  them,  no  help  could  he  get.  They  did  not 
consider  him.  They  were  as  dead. 

He  turned  and  silently  gazed  after  the  old  master. 
Skiff  Miller  was  rounding  the  curve.  In  a  moment 
he  would  be  gone  from  view.  Yet  he  never  turned 
his  head,  plodding  straight  onward,  slowly  and 


198  BROWN   WOLF 

methodically,  as  though  possessed  of  no  interest 
in  what  was  occurring  behind  his  back. 

And  in  this  fashion  he  went  out  of  view.  Wolf 
waited  for  him  to  reappear.  He  waited  a  long 
minute,  silently,  quietly,  without  movement,  as 
though  turned  to  stone  —  withal  stone  quick  with 
eagerness  and  desire.  He  barked  once,  and  waited. 
Then  he  turned  and  trotted  back  to  Walt  Irvine. 
He  sniffed  his  hand  and  dropped  down  heavily  at 
his  feet,  watching  the  trail  where  it  curved  emptily 
from  view. 

The  tiny  stream  slipping  down  the  mossy-lipped 
stone  seemed  suddenly  to  increase  the  volume  of 
its  gurgling  noise.  Save  for  the  meadow-larks, 
there  was  no  other  sound.  The  great  yellow  butter 
flies  drifted  silently  through  the  sunshine  and  lost 
themselves  in  the  drowsy  shadows.  Madge  gazed 
triumphantly  at  her  husband. 

A  few  minutes  later  Wolf  got  upon  his  feet.  De 
cision  and  deliberation  marked  his  movements. 
He  did  not  glance  at  the  man  and  woman.  His 
eyes  were  fixed  up  the  trail.  He  had  made  up  his 
mind.  They  knew  it.  And  they  knew,  so  far  as 
they  were  concerned,  that  the  ordeal  had  just  begun. 


BROWN   WOLF  199 

He  broke  into  a  trot,  and  Madge's  lips  pursed, 
forming  an  avenue  for  the  caressing  sound  that  it 
was  the  will  of  her  to  send  forth.  But  the  caressing 
sound  was  not  made.  She  was  impelled  to  look  at 
her  husband,  and  she  saw  the  sternness  with  which 
he  watched  her.  The  pursed  lips  relaxed,  and  she 
sighed  inaudibly. 

Wolfs  trot  broke  into  a  run.  Wider  and  wider 
were  the  leaps  he  made.  Not  once  did  he  turn  his 
head,  his  wolfs  brush  standing  out  straight  behind 
him.  He  cut  sharply  across  the  curve  of  the  trail 
and  was  gone. 


THE    SUN-DOG   TRAIL 


THE  SUN-DOG  TRAIL* 

SITKA  CHARLEY  smoked  his  pipe  and  gazed 
thoughtfully  at  the  Police  Gazette  illustration 
on  the  wall.  For  half  an  hour  he  had  been 
steadily  regarding  it,  and  for  half  an  hour  I  had 
been  slyly  watching  him.  Something  was  going 
on  in  that  mind  of  his,  and,  whatever  it  was,  I  knew 
it  was  well  worth  knowing.  He  had  lived  life,  and 
seen  things,  and  performed  that  prodigy  of  prodi 
gies,  namely,  the  turning  of  his  back  upon  his  own 
people,  and,  in  so  far  as  it  was  possible  for  an  Indian, 
becoming  a  white  man  even  in  his  mental  processes. 
As  he  phrased  it  himself,  he  had  come  into  the 
warm,  sat  among  us,  by  our  fires,  and  become  one 
of  us.  He  had  never  learned  to  read  nor  write, 
but  his  vocabulary  was  remarkable,  and  more 
remarkable  still  was  the  completeness  with  which 
he  had  assumed  the  white  man's  point  of  view,  the 
white  man's  attitude  toward  things. 

We  had  struck  this  deserted  cabin  after  a  hard 

*  COPYRIGHT,  1905,  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 
203 


204  THE   SUN-DOG   TRAIL 

day  on  trail.  The  dogs  had  been  fed,  the  supper 
dishes  washed,  the  beds  made,  and  we  were  now 
enjoying  that  most  delicious  hour  that  comes  each 
day,  and  but  once  each  day,  on  the  Alaskan  trail, 
the  hour  when  nothing  intervenes  between  the  tired 
body  and  bed  save  the  smoking  of  the  evening  pipe. 
Some  former  denizen  of  the  cabin  had  decorated 
its  walls  with  illustrations  torn  from  magazines  and 
newspapers,  and  it  was  these  illustrations  that  had 
held  Sitka  Charley's  attention  from  the  moment  of 
our  arrival  two  hours  before.  He  had  studied  them 
intently,  ranging  from  one  to  another  and  back 
again,  and  I  could  see  that  there  was  uncertainty 
in  his  mind,  and  bepuzzlement. 

"Well?"  I  finally  broke  the  silence. 

He  took  the  pipe  from  his  mouth  and  said  simply, 
"I  do  not  understand." 

He  smoked  on  again,  and  again  removed  the  pipe, 
using  it  to  point  at  the  Police  Gazette  illustration. 

"That  picture  —  what  does  it  mean?  I  do  not 
understand." 

I  looked  at  the  picture.  A  man,  with  a  pre 
posterously  wicked  face,  his  right  hand  pressed 
dramatically  to  his  heart,  was  falling  backward  to 


THE   SUN-DOG   TRAIL  205 

the  floor.  Confronting  him,  with  a  face  that  was 
a  composite  of  destroying  angel  and  Adonis,  was  a 
man  holding  a  smoking  revolver. 

"One  man  is  killing  the  other  man,"  I  said, 
aware  of  a  distinct  bepuzzlement  of  my  own  and  of 
failure  to  explain. 

"Why?"  asked  Sitka  Charley. 

"I  do  not  know,"  I  confessed. 

"That  picture  is  all  end,"  he  said.  "It  has  no 
beginning." 

"It  is  life,"  I  said. 

"Life   has   beginning,"   he   objected. 

I  was  silenced  for  the  moment,  while  his  eyes 
wandered  on  to  an  adjoining  decoration,  a  photo 
graphic  reproduction  of  somebody's  "Leda  and  the 
Swan." 

"That  picture,"  he  said,  "has  no  beginning. 
It  has  no  end.  I  do  not  understand  pictures." 

"Look  at  that  picture,"  I  commanded,  pointing 
to  a  third  decoration.  "It  means  something.  Tell 
me  what  it  means  to  you." 

He  studied  it  for  several  minutes. 

"The  little  girl  is  sick,"  he  said  finally.  "That 
is  the  doctor  looking  at  her.  They  have  been  up 


206  THE   SUN-DOG   TRAIL 

all  night  —  see,  the  oil  is  low  in  the  lamp,  the  first 
morning  light  is  coming  in  at  the  window.  It  is 
a  great  sickness  ;  maybe  she  will  die,  that  is  why 
the  doctor  looks  so  hard.  That  is  the  mother.  It 
is  a  great  sickness,  because  the  mother's  head  is 
on  the  table  and  she  is  crying." 

"How  do  you  know  she  is  crying  ?"  I  interrupted. 
"You  cannot  see  her  face.  Perhaps  she  is  asleep." 

Sitka  Charley  looked  at  me  in  swift  surprise,  then 
back  at  the  picture.  It  was  evident  that  he  had  not 
reasoned  the  impression. 

"Perhaps  she  is  asleep,"  he  repeated.  He  studied 
it  closely.  "No,  she  is  not  asleep.  The  shoulders 
show  that  she  is  not  asleep.  I  have  seen  the  shoulders 
of  a  woman  who  cried.  The  mother  is  ciying.  It 
is  a  very  great  sickness." 

"And  now  you  understand  the  picture,"  I  cried. 

He  shook  his  head,  and  asked,  "The  little  girl 
—  does  it  die  ?" 

It  was  my  turn  for  silence. 

"Does  it  die  ?"  he  reiterated.  "  You  are  a  painter- 
man.  Maybe  you  know." 

"No,  I  do  not  know,"  I  confessed. 

"  It  is  not  life,"  he  delivered  himself  dogmatically. 


THE   SUN-DOG   TRAIL  207 

"In  life  little  girl  die  or  get  well.  Something  hap 
pen  in  life.  In  picture  nothing  happen.  No,  I 
do  not  understand  pictures." 

His  disappointment  was  patent.  It  was  his  desire 
to  understand  all  things  that  white  men  under 
stand,  and  here,  in  this  matter,  he  failed.  I  felt, 
also,  that  there  was  challenge  in  his  attitude.  He 
was  bent  upon  compelling  me  to  show  him  the  wis 
dom  of  pictures.  Besides,  he  had  remarkable 
powers  of  visualization.  I  had  long  since  learned 
this.  He  visualized  everything.  He  saw  life  in 
pictures,  felt  life  in  pictures,  generalized  life  in 
pictures;  and  yet  he  did  not  understand  pictures 
when  seen  through  other  men's  eyes  and  expressed 
by  those  men  with  color  and  line  upon  canvas. 

"Pictures  are  bits  of  life,"  I  said.  "We  paint 
life  as  we  see  it.  For  instance,  Charley,  you  are 
coming  along  the  trail.  It  is  night.  You  see  a 
cabin.  The  window  is  lighted.  You  look  through 
the  window  for  one  second,  or  for  two  seconds, 
you  see  something,  and  you  go  on  your  way.  You 
saw  maybe  a  man  writing  a  letter.  You  saw  some 
thing  without  beginning  or  end.  Nothing  happened. 
Yet  it  was  a  bit  of  life  you  saw.  You  remember 


208  THE   SUN-DOG   TRAIL 

it  afterward.     It  is  like  a  picture  in  your  memory. 
The  window  is  the  frame  of  the  picture." 

I  could  see  that  he  was  interested,  and  I  knew 

that  as  I  spoke  he  had  looked  through  the  window 

0 

and  seen  the  man  writing  the  letter. 

"There  is  a  picture  you  have  painted  that  I 
understand,"  he  said.  "It  is  a  true  picture.  It 
has  much  meaning.  It  is  in  your  cabin  at  Dawson. 
It  is  a  faro  table.  There  are  men  playing.  It  is 
a  large  game.  The  limit  is  off." 

"How  do  you  know  the  limit  is  off?"  I  broke  in 
excitedly,  for  here  was  where  my  work  could  be 
tried  out  on  an  unbiassed  judge  who  knew  life  only, 
and  not  art,  and  who  was  a  sheer  master  of  reality. 
Also,  I  was  very  proud  of  that  particular  piece  of 
work.  I  had  named  it  "The  Last  Turn,"  and  I 
believed  it  to  be  one  of  the  best  things  I  had  ever 
done. 

"There  are  no  chips  on  the  table,"  Sitka  Charley 
explained.  "The  men  are  playing  with  markers. 
That  means  the  roof  is  the  limit.  One  man  play 
yellow  markers  —  maybe  one  yellow  marker  worth 
one  thousand  dollars,  maybe  two  thousand  dollars. 
One  man  play  red  markers.  Maybe  they  are 


THE   SUN-DOG   TRAIL  209 

worth  five  hundred  dollars,  maybe  one  thousand 
dollars.  It  is  a  very  big  game.  Everybody  play 
very  high,  up  to  the  roof.  How  do  I  know  ?  You 
make  the  dealer  with  blood  little  bit  warm  in  face." 
(I  was  delighted.)  "The  lookout,  you  make  him 
lean  forward  in  his  chair.  Why  he  lean  forward  ? 
Why  his  face  very  much  quiet  ?  Why  his  eyes 
very  much  bright  ?  Why  dealer  warm  with  blood 
a  little  bit  in  the  face  ?  Why  all  men  very  quiet  ? 
-  the  man  with  yellow  markers  ?  the  man  with 
white  markers  ?  the  man  with  red  markers  ?  Why 
nobody  talk  ?  Because  very  much  money.  Be 
cause  last  turn/' 

"How  do  you  know  it  is  the  last  turn?"  I 
asked. 

"The  king  is  coppered,  the  seven  is  played  open," 
he  answered.  "Nobody  bet  on  other  cards.  Other 
cards  all  gone.  Everybody  one  mind.  Everybody 
play  king  to  lose,  seven  to  win.  Maybe  bank  lose 
twenty  thousand  dollars,  maybe  bank  win.  Yes, 
that  picture  I  understand." 

"Yet  you  do  not  know  the  end!"  I  cried  trium 
phantly.  "It  is  the  last  turn,  but  the  cards  are 
not  yet  turned.  In  the  picture  they  will  never  be 


2io  THE   SUN-DOG   TRAIL 

turned.     Nobody  will  ever  know  who  wins  nor  who 
loses." 

"And  the  men  will  sit  there  and  never  talk,"  he 
said,  wonder  and  awe  growing  in  his  face.  "And 
the  lookout  will  lean  forward,  and  the  blood  will  be 
warm  in  the  face  of  the  dealer.  It  is  a  strange 
thing.  Always  will  they  sit  there,  always;  and 
the  cards  will  never  be  turned." 

"It  is  a  picture,"  I  said.  "It  is  life.  You  have 
seen  things  like  it  yourself." 

He  looked  at  me  and  pondered,  then  said,  very 
slowly:  "No,  as  you  say,  there  is  no  end  to  it.  No 
body  will  ever  know  the  end.  Yet  is  it  a  true  thing. 
I  have  seen  it.  It  is  life." 

For  a  long  time  he  smoked  on  in  silence,  weighing 
the  pictorial  wisdom  of  the  white  man  and  verifying 
it  by  the  facts  of  life.  He  nodded  his  head  several 
times,  and  grunted  once  or  twice.  Then  he  knocked 
the  ashes  from  his  pipe,  carefully  refilled  it,  and, 
after  a  thoughtful  pause,  lighted  it  again. 

"Then  have  I,  too,  seen  many  pictures  of  life," 
he  began;  "pictures  not  painted,  but  seen  with  the 
eyes.  I  have  looked  at  them  like  through  the  win 
dow  at  the  man  writing  the  letter.  I  have  seen 


THE   SUN-DOG   TRAIL  211 

many  pieces  of  life,  without  beginning,  without 
end,  without  understanding." 

With  a  sudden  change  of  position  he  turned  his 
eyes  full  upon  me  and  regarded  me  thoughtfully. 

"Look  you,"  he  said;  "you  are  a  painter-man. 
How  WT>uld  you  paint  this  which  I  saw,  a  picture 
without  beginning,  the  ending  of  which  I  do  not 
understand,  a  piece  of  life  with  the  northern  lights 
for  a  candle  and  Alaska  for  a  frame." 

"It  is  a  large  canvas,"  I  murmured. 

But  he  ignored  me,  for  the  picture  he  had  in  mind 
was  before  his  eyes  and  he  was  seeing  it. 

"There  are  many  names  for  this  picture,"  he 
said.  "  But  in  the  picture  there  are  many  sun- 
dogs,  and  it  comes  into  my  mind  to  call  it  'The 
Sun-Dog  Trail.'  It  was  a  long  time  ago,  seven 
years  ago,  the  fall  of  '97,  when  I  saw  the  woman 
first  time.  At  Lake  Linderman  I  had  one  canoe, 
very  good  Peterborough  canoe.  I  came  over  Chil- 
coot  Pass  with  two  thousand  letters  for  Dawson. 
I  was  letter  carrier.  Everybody  rush  to  Klondike 
at  that  time.  Many  people  on  trail.  Many  people 
chop  down  trees  and  make  boats.  Last  water, 
snow  in  the  air,  snow  on  the  ground,  ice  on  the  lake, 


212  THE   SUN-DOG   TRAIL 

on  the  river  ice  in  the  eddies.  Every  day  more 
snow,  more  ice.  Maybe  one  day,  maybe  three  days, 
maybe  six  days,  any  day  maybe  freeze-up  come, 
then  no  more  water,  all  ice,  everybody  walk,  Daw- 
son  six  hundred  miles,  long  time  walk.  Boat  go 
very  quick.  Everybody  want  to  go  boat.  Every 
body  say,  '  Charley,  two  hundred  dollars  you  take 
me  in  canoe/  '  Charley,  three  hundred  dollars,' 
'Charley,  four  hundred  dollars/  I  say  no,  all  the 
time  I  say  no.  I  am  letter  carrier. 

"In  morning  I  get  to  Lake  Linderman.  I  walk 
all  night  and  am  much  tired.  I  cook  breakfast,  I 
eat,  then  I  sleep  on  the  beach  three  hours.  I  wake 
up.  It  is  ten  o'clock.  Snow  is  falling.  There  is 
wind,  much  wind  that  blows  fair.  Also,  there  is  a 
woman  who  sits  in  the  snow  alongside.  She  is 
white  woman,  she  is  young,  very  pretty,  maybe  she 
is  twenty  years  old,  maybe  twenty-five  years 
old.  She  look  at  me.  I  look  at  her.  She  is 
very  tired.  She  is  no  dance-woman.  I  see  that 
right  away.  She  is  good  woman,  and  she  is  very 
tired. 

'You   are   Sitka   Charley,'   she   says.     I   get  up 
quick  and  roll  blankets  so  snow  does  not  get  inside. 


THE   SUN-DOG   TRAIL  213 

'I  go  to  Dawson,'  she  says.  'I  go  in  your  canoe  — 
how  much  ? ' 

"I  do  not  want  anybody  in  my  canoe.  I  do  not 
like  to  say  no.  So  I  say,  'One  thousand  dollars.' 
Just  for  fun  I  say  it,  so  woman  cannot  come  with 
me,  much  better  than  say  no.  She  look  at  me  very 
hard,  then  she  says,  'When  you  start?'  I  say  right 
away.  Then  she  says  all  right,  she  will  give  me 
one  thousand  dollars. 

"What  can  I  say?  I  do  not  want  the  woman, 
yet  have  I  given  my  word  that  for  one  thousand 
dollars  she  can  come.  I  am  surprised.  Maybe 
she  make  fun,  too,  so  I  say,  'Let  me  see  thousand 
dollars.'  And  that  woman,  that  young  woman, 
all  alone  on  the  trail,  there  in  the  snow,  she  take 
out  one  thousand  dollars,  in  greenbacks,  and  she 
put  them  in  my  hand.  I  look  at  money,  I  look  at 
her.  What  can  I  say?  I  say,  'No,  my  canoe  very 
small.  There  is  no  room  for  outfit.'  She  laugh. 
She  says,  'I  am  great  traveller.  This  is  my  outfit. 
She  kick  one  small  pack  in  the  snow.  It  is  two 
fur  robes,  canvas  outside,  some  woman's  clothes 
inside.  I  pick  it  up.  Maybe  thirty-five  pounds. 
I  am  surprised.  She  take  it  away  from  me.  She 


214  THE    SUN-DOG   TRAIL 

says,  'Come,  let  us  start/  She  carries  pack  into 
canoe.  What  can  I  say  ?  I  put  my  blankets  into 
canoe.  We  start. 

"And  that  is  the  way  I  saw  the  woman  first  time. 
The  wind  was  fair.  I  put  up  small  sail.  The 
canoe  went  very  fast,  it  flew  like  a  bird  over  the 
high  waves.  The  woman  was  much  afraid.  'What 
for  you  come  Klondike  much  afraid?'  I  ask.  She 
laugh  at  rne,  a  hard  laugh,  but  she  is  still  much 
afraid.  Also  is  she  very  tired.  I  run  canoe  through 
rapids  to  Lake  Bennett.  Water  very  bad,  and 
woman  cry  out  because  she  is  afraid.  We  go  down 
Lake  Bennett,  snow,  ice,  wind  like  a  gale,  but 
woman  is  very  tired  and  go  to  sleep. 

"That  night  we  make  camp  at  Windy  Arm. 
Woman  sit  by  fire  and  eat  supper.  I  look  at  her. 
She  is  pretty.  She  fix  hair.  There  is  much  hair, 
and  it  is  brown,  also  sometimes  it  is  like  gold  in  the 
firelight,  when  she  turn  her  head,  so,  and  flashes 
come  from  it  like  golden  fire.  The  eyes  are  large 
and  brown,  sometimes  warm  like  a  candle  behind 
a  curtain,  sometimes  very  hard  and  bright  like 
broken  ice  when  sun  shines  upon  it.  When  she 
smile  —  how  can  I  say  ?  —  when  she  smile  I  know 


THE   SUN-DOG    TRAIL  215 

white  man  like  to  kiss  her,  just  like  that,  when  she 
smile.  She  never  do  hard  work.  Her  hands  are 
soft,  like  baby's  hand.  She  is  soft  all  over,  like 
baby.  She  is  not  thin,  but  round  like  baby;  her 
arm,  her  leg,  her  muscles,  all  soft  and  round  like 
baby.  Her  waist  is  small,  and  when  she  stand  up, 
when  she  walk,  or  move  her  head  or  arm,  it  is  — 
I  do  not  know  the  word  —  but  it  is  nice  to  look  at, 
like  —  maybe  I  say  she  is  built  on  lines  like  the 
lines  of  a  good  canoe,  just  like  that,  and  when  she 
move  she  is  like  the  movement  of  the  good  canoe 
sliding  through  still  water  or  leaping  through  water 
when  it  is  white  and  fast  and  angry.  It  is  very  good 
to  see. 

"Why  does  she  come  into  Klondike,  all  alone, 
with  plenty  of  money  ?  I  do  not  know.  Next  day 
I  ask  her.  She  laugh  and  says:  'Sitka  Charley,  that 
is  none  of  your  business.  I  give  you  one  thousand 
dollars  take  me  to  Dawson.  That  only  is  your 
business/  Next  day  after  that  I  ask  her  what  is 
her  name.  She  laugh,  then  she  says,  'Mary  Jones, 
that  is  my  name.'  I  do  not  know  her  name,  but  I 
know  all  the  time  that  Mary  Jones  is  not  her  name. 

"It  is  very  cold   in   canoe,   and   because  of  cold 


2i6  THE   SUN-DOG   TRAIL 

sometimes  she  not  feel  good.  Sometimes  she  feel 
good  and  she  sing.  Her  voice  is  like  a  silver  bell, 
and  I  feel  good  all  over  like  when  I  go  into  church 
at  Holy  Cross  Mission,  and  when  she  sing  I  feel 
strong  and  paddle  like  hell.  Then  she  laugh  and 
says,  'You  think  we  get  to  Dawson  before  freeze-up, 
Charley?'  Sometimes  she  sit  in  canoe  and  is 
thinking  far  away,  her  eyes  like  that,  all  empty. 
She  does  not  see  Sitka  Charley,  nor  the  ice,  nor  the 
snow.  She  is  far  away.  Very  often  she  is  like 
that,  thinking  far  away.  Sometimes,  when  she  is 
thinking  far  away,  her  face  is  not  good  to  see.  It 
looks  like  a  face  that  is  angry,  like  the  face  of  one 
man  when  he  want  to  kill  another  man. 

"Last  day  to  Dawson  very  bad.  Shore-ice  in  all 
the  eddies,  mush-ice  in  the  stream.  I  cannot 
paddle.  The  canoe  freeze  to  ice.  I  cannot  get 
to  shore.  There  is  much  danger.  All  the  time  we 
go  down  Yukon  in  the  ice.  That  night  there  is 
much  noise  of  ice.  Then  ice  stop,  canoe  stop, 
everything  stop.  'Let  us  go  to  shore,'  the  woman 
says.  I  say  no,  better  wait.  By  and  by,  everything 
start  down-stream  again.  There  is  much  snow.  I 
cannot  see.  At  eleven  o'clock  at  night,  everything 


THE   SUN-DOG   TRAIL  217 

stop.  At  one  o'clock  everything  start  again.  At 
three  o'clock  everything  stop.  Canoe  is  smashed 
like  eggshell,  but  is  on  top  of  ice  and  cannot  sink. 
I  hear  dogs  howling.  We  wait.  We  sleep.  By 
and  by  morning  come.  There  is  no  more  snow. 
It  is  the  freeze-up,  and  there  is  Dawson.  Canoe 
smash  and  stop  right  at  Dawson.  Sitka  Charley 
has  come  in  with  two  thousand  letters  on  very  last 
water. 

"The  woman  rent  a  cabin  on  the  hill,  and  for 
one  week  I  see  her  no  more.  Then,  one  day,  she 
come  to  me.  *  Charley/  she  says,  'how  do  you  like 
to  work  for  me  ?  You  drive  dogs,  make  camp, 
travel  with  me/  I  say  that  I  make  too  much  money 
carrying  letters.  She  says,  'Charley,  I  will  pay  you 
more  money.'  I  tell  her  that  pick-and-shovel  man 
get  fifteen  dollars  a  day  in  the  mines.  She  says, 
'That  is  four  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  a  month/ 
And  I  say,  'Sitka  Charley  is  no  pick-and-shovel 
man.'  Then  she  says,  'I  understand,  Charley.  I 
will  give  you  seven  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  each 
month.'  It  is  a  good  price,  and  I  go  to  work  for 
her.  I  buy  for  her  dogs  and  sled.  We  travel  up 
Klondike,  up  Bonanza  and  Eldorado,  over  to 


2i8  THE   SUN-DOG   TRAIL 

Indian  River,  to  Sulphur  Creek,  to  Dominion,  back 
across  divide  to  Gold  Bottom  and  to  Too  Much 
Gold,  and  back  to  Dawson.  All  the  time  she  look 
for  something,  I  do  not  know  what.  I  am  puzzled. 
'What  thing  you  look  for?'  I  ask.  She  laugh. 
'You  look  for  gold?'  I  ask.  She  laugh.  Then 
she  says,  'That  is  none  of  your  business,  Charley.' 
And  after  that  I  never  ask  any  more. 

"She  has  a  small  revolver  which  she  carries  in 
her  belt.  Sometimes,  on  trail,  she  makes  practice 
with  revolver.  I  laugh.  'What  for  you  laugh, 
Charley  ?'  she  ask.  'What  for  you  play  with  that  ?' 
I  say.  'It  is  no  good.  It  is  too  small.  It  is  for  a 
child,  a  little  plaything.'  When  we  get  back  to 
Dawson  she  ask  me  to  buy  good  revolver  for  her. 
I  buy  a  Colt's  44.  It  is  very  heavy,  but  she  carry 
it  in  her  belt  all  the  time. 

"At  Dawson  comes  the  man.  Which  way  he 
come  I  do  not  know.  Only  do  I  know  he  is  che- 
cha-quo  —  what  you  call  tenderfoot.  His  hands 
are  soft,  just  like  hers.  He  never  do  hard  work. 
He  is  soft  all  over.  At  first  I  think  maybe  he  is 
her  husband.  But  he  is  too  young.  Also,  they 
make  two  beds  at  night.  He  is  maybe  twenty  years 


THE   SUN-DOG   TRAIL  219 

old.  His  eyes  blue,  his  hair  yellow,  he  has  a  little 
mustache  which  is  yellow.  His  name  is  John 
Jones.  Maybe  he  is  her  brother.  I  do  not  know. 
I  ask  questions  no  more.  Only  I  think  his  name 
not  John  Jones.  Other  people  call  him  Mr.  Girvan. 
I  do  not  think  that  is  his  name.  I  do  not  think  her 
name  is  Miss  Girvan,  which  other  people  call  her. 
I  think  nobody  know  their  names. 

"One  night  I  am  asleep  at  Dawson.  He  wake 
me  up.  He  says,  'Get  the  dogs  ready;  we  start.' 
No  more  do  I  ask  questions,  so  I  get  the  dogs  ready 
and  we  start.  We  go  down  the  Yukon.  It  is 
night-time,  it  is  November,  and  it  is  very  cold  — 
sixty-five  below.  She  is  soft.  He  is  soft.  The 
cold  bites.  They  get  tired.  They  cry  under  their 
breaths  to  themselves.  By  and  by  I  say  better  we 
stop  and  make  camp,  But  they  say  that  they  will 
go  on.  Three  times  I  say  better  to  make  camp  and 
rest,  but  each  time  they  say  they  will  go  on.  After 
that  I  say  nothing.  All  the  time,  day  after  day,  is 
it  that  way.  They  are  very  soft.  They  get  stiff 
and  sore.  They  do  not  understand  moccasins,  and 
their  feet  hurt  very  much.  They  limp,  they  stagger 
like  drunken  people,  they  cry  under  their  breaths; 


220  THE    SUN-DOG    TRAIL 

and  all  the  time  they  say,  '  On  !  on !  We  will  go 
on!' 

"They  are  like  crazy  people.  All  the  time  do 
they  go  on,  and  on.  Why  do  they  go  on  ?  I  do 
not  know.  Only  do  they  go  on.  What  are  they 
after  ?  I  do  not  know.  They  are  not  after  gold. 
There  is  no  stampede.  Besides,  they  spend  plenty 
of  money.  But  I  ask  questions  no  more.  I,  too, 
go  on  and  on,  because  I  am  strong  on  the  trail  and 
because  I  am  greatly  paid. 

"We  make  Circle  City.  That  for  which  they 
look  is  not  there.  I  think  now  that  we  will  rest, 
and  rest  the  dogs.  But  we  do  not  rest,  not  for  one 
day  do  we  rest.  'Come,'  says  the  woman  to  the 
man,  'let  us  go  on.'  And  we  go  on.  We  leave  the 
Yukon.  We  cross  the  divide  to  the  west  and 
swing  down  into  the  Tanana  Country.  There  are 
new  diggings  there.  But  that  for  which  they  look 
is  not  there,  and  we  take  the  back  trail  to  Circle 
City. 

"It  is  a  hard  journey.  December  is  most  gone. 
The  days  are  short.  It  is  very  cold.  One  morning 
it  is  seventy  below  zero.  '  Better  that  we  do  not  travel 
to-day,'  I  say,  'else  will  the  frost  be  unwarmed  in 


THE   SUN-DOG   TRAIL  221 

the  breathing  and  bite  all  the  edges  of  our  lungs. 
After  that  we  will  have  bad  cough,  and  maybe  next 
spring  will  come  pneumonia/  But  they  are  cbe- 
cba-quo.  They  do  not  understand  the  trail.  They 
are  like  dead  people  they  are  so  tired,  but  they  say, 
'Let  us  go  on.'  We  go  on.  The  frost  bites  their 
lungs,  and  they  get  the  dry  cough.  They  cough 
till  the  tears  run  down  their  cheeks.  When  bacon 
is  frying  they  must  run  away  from  the  fire  and  cough 
half  an  hour  in  the  snow.  They  freeze  their  cheeks 
a  little  bit,  so  that  the  skin  turns  black  and  is  very 
sore.  Also,  the  man  freezes  his  thumb  till  the  end 
is  like  to  come  off,  and  he  must  wear  a  large  thumb 
on  his  mitten  to  keep  it  warm.  And  sometimes, 
when  the  frost  bites  hard  and  the  thumb  is  very 
cold,  he  must  take  off  the  mitten  and  put  the  hand 
between  his  legs  next  to  the  skin,  so  that  the  thumb 
may  get  warm  again. 

"We  limp  into  Circle  City,  and  even  I,  Sitka 
Charley,  am  tired.  It  is  Christmas  Eve.  I  dance, 
drink,  make  a  good  time,  for  to-morrow  is  Christmas 
Day  and  we  will  rest.  But  no.  It  is  five  o'clock 
in  the  morning  —  Christmas  morning.  I  am  two 
hours  asleep.  The  man  stand  by  my  bed.  'Come, 


222  THE   SUN-DOG   TRAIL 

Charley,5  he  says,  'harness  the  dogs.  We 
start.' 

"Have  I  not  said  that  I  ask  questions  no  more? 
They  pay  me  seven  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  each 
month.  They  are  my  masters.  I  am  their  man. 
If  they  say,  *  Charley,  come,  let  us  start  for  hell/ 
I  will  harness  the  dogs,  and  snap  the  whip,  and 
start  for  hell.  So  I  harness  the  dogs,  and  we  start 
down  the  Yukon.  Where  do  we  go  ?  They  do 
not  say.  Only  do  they  say,  'On!  on!  We  will 
go  on ! ' 

"They  are  very  weary.  They  have  travelled 
many  hundreds  of  miles,  and  they  do  not  under 
stand  the  way  of  the  trail.  Besides,  their  cough  is 
very  bad  —  the  dry  cough  that  makes  strong  men 
swear  and  weak  men  cry.  But  they  go  on.  Every 
day  they  go  on.  Never  do  they  rest  the  dogs. 
Always  do  they  buy  new  dogs.  At  every  camp,  at 
every  post,  at  every  Indian  village,  do  they  cut  out 
the  tired  dogs  and  put  in  fresh  dogs.  They  have 
much  money,  money  without  end,  and  like  water 
they  spend  it.  They  are  crazy  ?  Sometimes  I  think 
so,  for  there  is  a  devil  in  them  that  drives  them  on 
and  on,  always  on.  What  is  it  that  they  try  to  find  ? 


THE   SUN-DOG   TRAIL  223 

It  is  not  gold.  Never  do  they  dig  in  the  ground. 
I  think  a  long  time.  Then  I  think  it  is  a  man  they 
try  to  find.  But  what  man  ?  Never  do  we  see  the 
man.  Yet  are  they  like  wolves  on  the  trail  of  the 
kill.  But  they  are  funny  wolves,  soft  wolves,  baby 
wrolves  who  do  not  understand  the  way  of  the  trail. 
They  cry  aloud  in  their  sleep  at  night.  In  their 
sleep  they  moan  and  groan  with  the  pain  of  their 
weariness.  And  in  the  day,  as  they  stagger  along 
the  trail,  they  cry  under  their  breaths.  They  are 
funny  wolves. 

"We  pass  Fort  Yukon.  We  pass  Fort  Hamilton. 
We  pass  Minook.  January  has  come  and  nearly 
gone.  The  days  are  very  short.  At  nine  o'clock 
comes  daylight.  At  three  o'clock  comes  night. 
And  it  is  cold.  And  even  I,  Sitka  Charley,  am  tired. 
Will  we  go  on  forever  this  way  without  end  ?  I  do 
not  know.  But  always  do  I  look  along  the  trail 
for  that  which  they  try  to  find.  There  are  few 
people  on  the  trail.  Sometimes  we  travel  one  hun 
dred  miles  and  never  see  a  sign  of  life.  It  is  very 
quiet.  There  is  no  sound.  Sometimes  it  snows, 
and  we  are  like  wandering  ghosts.  Sometimes  it  is 
clear,  and  at  midday  the  sun  looks  at  us  for  a 


224  THE   SUN-DOG   TRAIL 

moment  over  the  hills  to  the  south.  The  northern 
lights  flame  in  the  sky,  and  the  sun-dogs  dance, 
and  the  air  is  filled  with  frost-dust. 

"I  am  Sitka  Charley,  a  strong  man.  I  was  born 
on  the  trail,  and  all  my  days  have  I  lived  on  the 
trail.  And  yet  have  these  two  baby  wolves  made 
me  very  tired.  I  am  lean,  like  a  starved  cat,  and 
I  am  glad  of  my  bed  at  night,  and  in  the  morning 
am  I  greatly  weary.  Yet  ever  are  we  hitting  the 
trail  in  the  dark  before  daylight,  and  still  on  the 
trail  does  the  dark  after  nightfall  find  us.  These 
two  baby  wolves  !  If  I  am  lean  like  a  starved  cat, 
they  are  lean  like  cats  that  have  never  eaten  and 
have  died.  Their  eyes  are  sunk  deep  in  their  heads, 
bright  sometimes  as  with  fever,  dim  and  cloudy 
sometimes  like  the  eyes  of  the  dead.  Their  cheeks 
are  hollow  like  caves  in  a  cliff".  Also  are  their 
cheeks  black  and  raw  from  many  freezings.  Some 
times  it  is  the  woman  in  the  morning  who  says, 
'I  cannot  get  up.  I  cannot  move.  Let  me  die.' 
And  it  is  the  man  who  stands  beside  her  and  says, 
'Come,  let  us  go  on/  And  they  go  on.  And  some 
times  it  is  the  man  who  cannot  get  up,  and  the 
woman  says,  'Come,  let  us  go  on/  But  the  one 


THE   SUN-DOG   TRAIL  225 

thing  they  do,  and  always  do,  is  to  go  on.  Always 
do  they  go  on. 

"Sometimes,  at  the  trading  posts,  the  man  and 
woman  get  letters.  I  do  not  know  what  is  in  the 
letters.  But  it  is  the  scent  that  they  follow,  these 
letters  themselves  are  the  scent.  One  time  an 
Indian  gives  them  a  letter.  I  talk  with  him  pri 
vately.  He  says  it  is  a  man  with  one  eye  who  gives 
him  the  letter,  a  man  who  travels  fast  down  the 
Yukon.  That  is  all.  But  I  know  that  the  baby 
wolves  are  after  the  man  with  the  one  eye. 

"It  is  February,  and  we  have  travelled  fifteen 
hundred  miles.  We  are  getting  near  Bering  Sea, 
and  there  are  storms  and  blizzards.  The  going  is 
hard.  We  come  to  Anvig.  I  do  not  know,  but  I 
think  sure  they  get  a  letter  at  Anvig,  for  they  are 
much  excited,  and  they  say,  'Come,  hurry,  let  us  go 
on.'  But  I  say  we  must  buy  grub,  and  they  say 
we  must  travel  light  and  fast.  Also,  they  say  that 
we  can  get  grub  at  Charley  McKeon's  cabin.  Then 
do  I  know  that  they  take  the  big  cut-off,  for  it  is 
there  that  Charley  McKeon  lives  where  the  Black 
Rock  stands  by  the  trail. 

"Before  we  start,  I  talk  maybe  two  minutes  with 
Q 


226  THE    SUN-DOG   TRAIL 

the  priest  at  Anvig.  Yes,  there  is  a  man  with  one 
eye  who  has  gone  by  and  who  travels  fast."  And  I 
know  that  for  which  they  look  is  the  man  with  the 
one  eye.  We  leave  Anvig  with  little  grub,  and 
travel  light  and  fast.  There  are  three  fresh  dogs 
bought  in  Anvig,  and  we  travel  very  fast.  The 
man  and  woman  are  like  mad.  We  start  earlier 
in  the  morning,  we  travel  later  at  night.  I  look 
sometimes  to  see  them  die,  these  two  baby  wolves, 
but  they  will  not  die.  They  go  on  and  on.  When 
the  dry  cough  take  hold  of  them  hard,  they  hold 
their  hands  against  their  stomach  and  double  up 
in  the  snow,  and  cough,  and  cough,  and  cough. 
They  cannot  walk,  they  cannot  talk.  Maybe  for 
ten  minutes  they  cough,  maybe  for  half  an  hour, 
and  then  they  straighten  up,  the  tears  from  the 
coughing  frozen  on  their  faces,  and  the  words  they 
say  are,  'Come,  let  us  go  on.' 

"Even  I,  Sitka  Charley,  am  greatly  weary,  and 
I  think  seven  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  is  a  cheap 
price  for  the  labor  I  do.  We  take  the  big  cut-off, 
and  the  trail  is  fresh.  The  baby  wolves  have  their 
noses  down  to  the  trail,  and  they  say,  'Hurry!' 
All  the  time  do  they  say,  '  Hurry  !  Faster !  Faster  ! ' 


THE   SUN-DOG   TRAIL  227 

It  is  hard  on  the  dogs.  We  have  not  much  food  and 
we  cannot  give  them  enough  to  eat,  and  they  grow 
weak.  Also,  they  must  work  hard.  The  woman 
has  true  sorrow  for  them,  and  often,  because  of 
them,  the  tears  are  in  her  eyes.  But  the  devil  in 
her  that  drives  her  on  will  not  let  her  stop  and  rest 
the  dogs. 

"And  then  we  come  upon  the  man  with  the  one 
eye.  He  is  in  the  snow  by  the  trail,  and  his  leg  is 
broken.  Because  of  the  leg  he  has  made  a  poor 
camp,  and  has  been  lying  on  his  blankets  for  three 
days  and  keeping  a  fire  going.  When  we  find  him 
he  is  swearing.  He  swears  like  hell.  Never  have 
I  heard  a  man  swear  like  that  man.  I  am  glad. 
Now  that  they  have  found  that  for  which  they  look, 
we  will  have  rest.  But  the  woman  says,  'Let  us 
start.  Hurry!' 

"I  am  surprised.  But  the  man  with  the  one  eye 
says,  'Never  mind  me.  Give  me  your  grub.  You 
will  get  more  grub  at  McKeon's  cabin  to-morrow. 
Send  McKeon  back  for  me.  But  do  you  go  on/ 
Here  is  another  wolf,  an  old  wolf,  and  he,  too, 
thinks  but  the  one  thought,  to  go  on.  So  we  give 
him  our  grub,  which  is  not  much,  and  we  chop 


228  THE    SUN-DOG   TRAIL 

wood  for  his  fire,  and  we  take  his  strongest  dogs  and 
go  on.  We  left  the  man  with  one  eye  there  in  the 
snow,  and  he  died  there  in  the  snow,  for  McKeon 
never  went  back  for  him.  And  who  that  man  was, 
and  why  he  came  to  be  there,  I  do  not  know.  But 
I  think  he  was  greatly  paid  by  the  man  and  the 
woman,  like  me,  to  do  their  work  for  them. 

"That  day  and  that  night  we  had  nothing  to  eat, 
and  all  next  day  we  travelled  fast,  and  we  were  weak 
with  hunger.  Then  we  came  to  the  Black  Rock, 
which  rose  five  hundred  feet  above  the  trail.  It 
was  at  the  end  of  the  day.  Darkness  was  coming, 
and  we  could  not  find  the  cabin  of  McKeon.  We 
slept  hungry,  and  in  the  morning  looked  for  the 
cabin.  It  was  not  there,  which  was  a  strange  thing, 
for  everybody  knew  that  McKeon  lived  in  a  cabin 
at  Black  Rock.  We  were  near  to  the  coast,  where 
the  wind  blows  hard  and  there  is  much  snow.  Every 
where  there  were  small  hills  of  snow  where  the  wind 
had  piled  it  up.  I  have  a  thought,  and  I  dig  in  one 
and  another  of  the  hills  of  snow.  Soon  I  fi'nd  the 
walls  of  the  cabin,  and  I  dig  down  to  the  door.  I 
go  inside.  McKeon  is  dead.  Maybe  two  or  three 
weeks  he  is  dead.  A  sickness  had  come  upon  him 


THE   SUN-DOG   TRAIL  229 

so  that  he  could  not  leave  the  cabin.  The  wind  and 
the  snow  had  covered  the  cabin.  He  had  eaten  his 
grub  and  died.  I  looked  for  his  cache,  but  there 
was  no  grub  in  it. 

c<Let  us  go  on/  said  the  woman.  Her  eyes  were 
hungry,  and  her  hand  was  upon  her  heart,  as  with 
the  hurt  of  something  inside.  She  bent  back  and 
forth  like  a  tree  in  the  wind  as  she  stood  there. 
'Yes,  let  us  go  on/  said  the  man.  His  voice  was 
hollow,  like  the  klonk  of  an  old  raven,  and  he  was 
hunger-mad.  His  eyes  were  like  live  coals  of  fire, 
and  as  his  body  rocked  to  and  fro,  so  rocked  his 
soul  inside.  And  I,  too,  said, 'Let  us  go  on.'  For 
that  one  thought,  laid  upon  me  like  a  lash  for  every 
mile  of  fifteen  hundred  miles,  had  burned  itself  into 
my  soul,  and  I  think  that  I,  too,  was  rnad.  Besides, 
we  could  only  go  on,  for  there  was  no  grub.  And 
we  went  on,  giving  no  thought  to  the  man  with  the 
one  eye  in  the  snow. 

"There  is  little  travel  on  the  big  cut-off.  Some 
times  two  or  three  months  and  nobody  goes  by. 
The  snow  had  covered  the  trail,  and  there  was  no 
sign  that  men  had  ever  come  or  gone  that  way. 
All  day  the  wind  blew  and  the  snow  fell,  and  all 


230  THE    SUN-DOG    TRAIL 

day  we  travelled,  while  our  stomachs  gnawed  their 
desire  and  our  bodies  grew  weaker  with  every  step 
they  took.  Then  the  woman  began  to  fall.  Then 
trie  man.  I  did  not  fall,  but  my  feet  were  heavy 
and  I  caught  my  toes  and  stumbled  many  times. 

"That  night  is  the  end  of  February.  I  kill  three 
ptarmigan  with  the  woman's  revolver,  and  we  are 
made  somewhat  strong  again.  But  the  dogs  have 
nothing  to  eat.  They  try  to  eat  their  harness, 
which  is  of  leather  and  walrus-hide,  and  I  must 
fight  them  off  with  a  club  and  hang  all  the  harness 
in  a  tree.  And  all  night  they  howl  and  fight  around 
that  tree.  But  we  do  not  mind.  We  sleep  like 
dead  people,  and  in  the  morning  get  up  like  dead 
people  out  of  their  graves  and  go  on  along  the  trail. 

"That  morning  is  the  ist  of  March,  and  on  that 
morning  I  see  the  first  sign  of  that  after  which  the 
baby  wolves  are  in  search.  It  is  clear  weather, 
and  cold.  The  sun  stay  longer  in  the  sky,  and 
there  are  sun-dogs  flashing  on  either  side,  and  the 
air  is  bright  with  frost-dust.  The  snow  falls  no 
more  upon  the  trail,  and  I  see  the  fresh  sign  of  dogs 
and  sled.  There  is  one  man  with  that  outfit,  and 
I  see  in  the  snow  that  he  is  not  strong.  He,  too, 


THE   SUN-DOG   TRAIL  231 

has  not  enough  to  eat.  The  young  wolves  see  the 
fresh  sign,  too,  and  they  are  much  excited.  'Hurry  !' 
they  say.  All  the  time  they  say,  '  Hurry !  Faster, 
Charley,  faster!' 

"We  make  hurry  very  slow.  All  the  time  the 
man  and  the  woman  fall  down.  When  they  try  to 
ride  on  sled  the  dogs  are  too  weak,  and  the  dogs 
fall  down.  Besides,  it  is  so  cold  that  if  they  ride 
on  the  sled  they  will  freeze.  It  is  very  easy  for  a 
hungry  man  to  freeze.  When  the  woman  fall 
down,  the  man  help  her  up.  Sometimes  the  woman 
help  the  man  up.  By  and  by  both  fall  down  and 
cannot  get  up,  and  I  must  help  them  up  all  the 
time,  else  they  will  not  get  up  and  will  die  there  in 
the  snow.  This  is  very  hard  work,  for  I  am  greatly 
weary,  and  as  well  I  must  drive  the  dogs,  and  the 
man  and  woman  are  very  heavy  with  no  strength 
in  their  bodies.  So,  by  and  by,  I,  too,  fall  down  in 
the  snow,  and  there  is  no  one  to  help  me  up. 
I  must  get  up  by  myself.  And  always  do  I  get  up 
by  myself,  and  help  them  up,  and  make  the  dogs 
go  on. 

uThat  night  I  get  one  ptarmigan,  and  we  are 
very  hungry.  And  that  night  the  man  says  to  me, 


232  THE   SUN-DOG   TRAIL 

'What  time  start  to-morrow,  Charley?'  It  is  like 
the  voice  of  a  ghost.  I  say,  'All  the  time  you  make 
start  at  five  o'clock.'  ' To-morrow,'  he  says,  'we 
will  start  at  three  o'clock.'  I  laugh  in  great  bitter 
ness,  and  I  say,  'You  are  dead  man.'  And  he  says, 
'To-morrow  we  will  start  at  three  o'clock.' 

"And  we  start  at  three  o'clock,  for  I  am  their 
man,  and  that  which  they  say  is  to  be  done,  I  do. 
It  is  clear  and  cold,  and  there  is  no  wind.  When 
daylight  comes  we  can  see  a  long  way  off.  And  it 
is  very  quiet.  We  can  hear  no  sound  but  the  beat 
of  our  hearts,  and  in  the  silence  that  is  a  very  loud 
sound.  We  are  like  sleep-walkers,  and  we  walk 
in  dreams  until  we  fall  down;  and  then  we  know 
we  must  get  up,  and  we  see  the  trail  once  more  and 
hear  the  beating  of  our  hearts.  Sometimes,  when 
I  am  walking  in  dreams  this  way,  I  have  strange 
thoughts.  Why  does  Sitka  Charley  live  ?  I  ask 
myself.  Why  does  Sitka  Charley  work  hard,  and 
go  hungry,  and  have  all  this  pain  ?  For  seven  hun 
dred  and  fifty  dollars  a  month,  I  make  the  answer, 
and  I  know  it  is  a  foolish  answer.  Also  is  it  a  true 
answer.  And  after  that  never  again  do  I  care  for 
money.  For  that  day  a  large  wisdom  came  to  me. 


THE   SUN-DOG    TRAIL  233 

There  was  a  great  light,  and  I  saw  clear,  and  I  knew 
that  it  was  not  for  money  that  a  man  must  live,  but 
for  a  happiness  that  no  man  can  give,  or  buy,  or  sell, 
and  that  is  beyond  all  value  of  all  money  in  the 
world. 

"In  the  morning  we  come  upon  the  last-night 
camp  of  the  man  who  is  before  us.  It  is  a  poor 
camp,  the  kind  a  man  makes  who  is  hungry  and 
without  strength.  On  the  snow  there  are  pieces  of 
blanket  and  of  canvas,  and  I  know  what  has  hap 
pened.  His  dogs  have  eaten  their  harness,  and  he 
has  made  new  harness  out  of  his  blankets.  The 
man  and  woman  stare  hard  at  what  is  to  be  seen, 
and  as  I  look  at  them  my  back  feels  the  chill  as 
of  a  cold  wind  against  the  skin.  Their  eyes  are 
toil-mad  and  hunger-mad,  and  burn  like  fire  deep 
in  their  heads.  Their  faces  are  like  the  faces  of 
people  who  have  died  of  hunger,  and  their  cheeks 
are  black  with  the  dead  flesh  of  many  freezings. 
'Let  us  go  on,'  says  the  man.  But  the  woman 
coughs  and  falls  in  the  snow.  It  is  the  dry  cough 
where  the  frost  has  bitten  the  lungs.  For  a  long 
time  she  coughs,  then  like  a  woman  crawling  out 
of  her  grave  she  crawls  to  her  feet.  The  tears  are 


234  THE   SUN-DOG   TRAIL 

ice  upon  her  cheeks,  and  her  breath  makes  a  noise 
as  it  comes  and  goes,  and  she  says,  'Let  us  go  on/ 

"We  go  on.  And  we  walk  in  dreams  through 
the  silence.  And  every  time  we  walk  is  a  dream 
and  we  are  without  pain;  and  every  time  we  fall 
down  is  an  awakening,  and  we  see  the  snow  and 
the  mountains  and  the  fresh  trail  of  the  man  who 
is  before  us,  and  we  know  all  our  pain  again.  We 
come  to  where  we  can  see  a  long  way  over  the  snow, 
and  that  for  which  they  look  is  before  them.  A 
mile  away  there  are  black  spots  upon  the  snow. 
The  black  spots  move.  My  eyes  are  dim,  and  I 
must  stiffen  my  soul  to  see.  And  I  see  one  man 
with  dogs  and  a  sled.  The  baby  wolves  see,  too. 
They  can  no  longer  talk,  but  they  whisper,  'On, 
on.  Let  us  hurry  !' 

"And  they  fall  down,  but  they  go  on.  The  man 
who  is  before  us,  his  blanket  harness  breaks  often, 
and  he  must  stop  and  mend  it.  Our  harness  is 
good,  for  I  have  hung  it  in  trees  each  night.  At 
eleven  o'clock  the  man  is  half  a  mile  away.  At 
one  o'clock  he  is  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away.  He  is 
very  weak.  We  see  him  fall  down  many  times  in 
the  snow.  One  of  his  dogs  can  no  longer  travel, 


THE   SUN-DOG   TRAIL  235 

and  he  cuts  it  out  of  the  harness.  But  he  does  not 
kill  it.  I  kill  it  with  the  axe  as  I  go  by,  as  I  kill  one 
of  my  dogs  which  loses  its  legs  and  can  travel  no 
more. 

"Now  we  are  three  hundred  yards  away.  We 
go  very  slow.  Maybe  in  two,  three  hours  we  go 
one  mile.  We  do  not  walk.  All  the  time  we  fall 
down.  We  stand  up  and  stagger  two  steps,  maybe 
three  steps,  then  we  fall  down  again.  And  all  the 
time  I  must  help  up  the  man  and  woman.  Some 
times  they  rise  to  their  knees  and  fall  forward, 
maybe  four  or  five  times  before  they  can  get  to  their 
feet  again  and  stagger  two  or  three  steps  and  fall. 
But  always  do  they  fall  forward.  Standing  or 
kneeling,  always  do  they  fall  forward,  gaining  on 
the  trail  each  time  by  the  length  of  their  bodies. 

"Sometimes  they  crawl  on  hands  and  knees  like 
animals  that  live  in  the  forest.  We  go  like  snails, 
like  snails  that  are  dying  we  go  so  slow.  And  yet 
we  go  faster  than  the  man  who  is  before  us.  For 
he,  too,  falls  all  the  time,  and  there  is  no  Sitka 
Charley  to  lift  him  up.  Now  he  is  two  hundred 
yards  away.  After  a  long  time  he  is  one  hundred 
yards  away. 


236  THE   SUN-DOG   TRAIL 

"It  is  a  funny  sight.  I  want  to  laugh  out  loud, 
Ha  !  ha  !  just  like  that,  it  is  so  funny.  It  is  a  race 
of  dead  men  and  dead  dogs.  It  is  like  in  a  dream 
when  you  have  a  nightmare  and  run  away  very 
fast  for  your  life  and  go  very  slow.  The  man  who 
is  with  me  is  mad.  The  woman  is  mad.  I  am  mad. 
All  the  world  is  mad,  and  I  want  to  laugh,  it  is  so 
funny. 

"The  stranger-man  who  is  before  us  leaves  his 
dogs  behind  and  goes  on  alone  across  the  snow. 
After  a  long  time  we  come  to  the  dogs.  They  lie 
helpless  in  the  snow,  their  harness  of  blanket  and 
canvas  on  them,  the  sled  behind  them,  and  as  we 
pass  them  they  whine  to  us  and  cry  like  babies  that 
are  hungry. 

"Then  we,  too,  leave  our  dogs  and  go  on  alone 
across  the  snow.  The  man  and  the  woman  are 
nearly  gone,  and  they  moan  and  groan  and  sob, 
but  they  go  on.  I,  too,  go  on.  I  have  but  one 
thought.  It  is  to  come  up  to  the  stranger-man. 
Then  it  is  that  I  shall  rest,  and  not  until  then  shall 
I  rest,  and  it  seems  that  I  must  lie  down  and  sleep 
for  a  thousand  years,  I  am  so  tired. 

"The  stranger-man  is  fifty  yards  away,  all  alone 


THE   SUN-DOG   TRAIL  237 

in  the  white  snow.  He  falls  and  crawls,  staggers, 
and  falls  and  crawls  again.  He  is  like  an  animal 
that  is  sore  wounded  and  trying  to  run  from  the 
hunter.  By  and  by  he  crawls  on  hands  and  knees. 
He  no  longer  stands  up.  And  the  man  and  woman 
no  longer  stand  up.  They,  too,  crawl  after  him  on 
hands  and  knees.  But  I  stand  up.  Sometimes  I 
fall,  but  always  do  I  stand  up  again. 

"It  is  a  strange  thing  to  see.  All  about  is  the 
snow  and  the  silence,  and  through  it  crawl  the  man 
and  the  woman,  and  the  stranger-man  who  goes 
before.  On  either  side  the  sun  are  sun-dogs,  so 
that  there  are  three  suns  in  the  sky.  The  frost- 
dust  is  like  the  dust  of  diamonds,  and  all  the  air 
is  filled  with  it.  Now  the  woman  coughs,  and  lies 
still  in  the  snow  until  the  fit  has  passed,  when  she 
crawls  on  again.  Now  the  man  looks  ahead,  and 
he  is  blear-eyed  as  with  old  age  and  must  rub  his 
eyes  so  that  he  can  see  the  stranger-man.  And 
now  the  stranger-man  looks  back  over  his  shoulder. 
And  Sitka  Charley,  standing  upright,  maybe  falls 
down  and  stands  upright  again. 

"After  a  long  time  the  stranger-man  crawls  no 
more.  He  stands  slowly  upon  his  feet  and  rocks 


238  THE   SUN-DOG   TRAIL 

back  and  forth.  Also  does  he  take  off  one  mitten 
and  wait  with  revolver  in  his  hand,  rocking  back 
and  forth  as  he  waits.  His  face  is  skin  and  bones 
and  frozen  black.  It  is  a  hungry  face.  The  eyes 
are  deep-sunk  in  his  head,  and  the  lips  are  snarling. 
The  man  and  woman,  too,  get  upon  their  feet  and 
they  go  toward  him  very  slowly.  And  all  about  is 
the  snow  and  the  silence.  And  in  the  sky  are  three 
suns,  and  all  the  air  is  flashing  with  the  dust  of 
diamonds. 

"And  thus  it  was  that  I,  Sitka  Charley,  saw  the 
baby  wolves  make  their  kill.  No  word  is  spoken. 
Only  does  the  stranger-man  snarl  with  his  hungry 
face.  Also  does  he  rock  to  and  fro,  his  shoulders 
drooping,  his  knees  bent,  and  his  legs  wide  apart  so 
that  he  does  not  fall  down.  The  man  and  the  woman 
stop  maybe  fifty  feet  away.  Their  legs,  too,  are 
wide  apart  so  that  they  do  not  fall  down,  and  their 
bodies  rock  to  and  fro.  The  stranger-man  is  very 
weak.  His  arm  shakes,  so  that  when  he  shoots  at 
the  man  his  bullet  strikes  in  the  snow.  The  man 
cannot  take  off  his  mitten.  The  stranger-man 
shoots  at  him  again,  and  this  time  the  bullet  goes 
by  in  the  air.  Then  the  man  takes  the  mitten  in 


THE   SUN-DOG   TRAIL  239 

his  teeth  and  pulls  it  off.  But  his  hand  is  frozen 
and  he  cannot  hold  the  revolver,  and  it  falls  in  the 
snow.  I  look  at  the  woman.  Her  mitten  is  off, 
and  the  big  Colt's  revolver  is  in  her  hand.  Three 
times  she  shoot,  quick,  just  like  that.  The  hungry 
face  of  the  stranger-man  is  still  snarling  as  he  falls 
forward  into  the  snow. 

"They  do  not  look  at  the  dead  man.  'Let 
us  go  on,'  they  say.  And  we  go  on.  But  now 
that  they  have  found  that  for  which  they  look, 
they  are  like  dead.  The  last  strength  has  gone  out 
of  them.  They  can  stand  no  more  upon  their  feet. 
They  will  not  crawl,  but  desire  only  to  close  their 
eyes  and  sleep.  I  see  not  far  away  a  place  for 
camp.  I  kick  them.  I  have  my  dog-whip,  and  I 
give  them  the  lash  of  it.  They  cry  aloud,  but  they 
must  crawl.  And  they  do  crawl  to  the  place  for 
camp.  I  build  fire  so  that  they  will  not  freeze. 
Then  I  go  back  for  sled.  Also,  I  kill  the  dogs  of 
the  stranger-man  so  that  we  may  have  food  and 
not  die.  I  put  the  man  and  woman  in  blankets 
and  they  sleep.  Sometimes  I  wake  them  and  give 
them  little  bit  of  food.  They  are  not  awake,  but 
they  take  the  food.  The  woman  sleep  one  day 


24o  THE   SUN-DOG   TRAIL 

and  a  half.  Then  she  wake  up  and  go  to  sleep 
again.  The  man  sleep  two  days  and  wake  up  and 
go  to  sleep  again.  After  that  we  go  down  to  the 
coast  at  St.  Michaels.  And  when  the  ice  goes  out 
of  Bering  Sea,  the  man  and  woman  go  away  on  a 
steamship.  But  first  they  pay  me  my  seven  hun 
dred  and  fifty  dollars  a  month.  Also,  they  make 
me  a  present  of  one  thousand  dollars.  And  that 
was  the  year  that  Sitka  Charley  gave  much  money 
to  the  Mission  at  Holy  Cross." 

"But  why  did  they  kill  the  man?"    I  asked. 

Sitka  Charley  delayed  reply  until  he  had  lighted 
his  pipe.  He  glanced  at  the  Police  Gazette  illustra 
tion  and  nodded  his  head  at  it  familiarly.  Then 
he  said,  speaking  slowly  and  ponderingly: 

"I  have  thought  much.  I  do  not  know.  It  is 
something  that  happened.  It  is  a  picture  I  remem 
ber.  It  is  like  looking  in  at  the  window  and  seeing 
the  man  writing  a  letter.  They  Came  into  my  life 
and  they  went  out  of  my  life,  and  the  picture  is 
as  I  have  said,  without  beginning,  the  end  without 
understanding." 

"You  have  painted  many  pictures  in  the  telling," 
I  said. 


THE   SUN-DOG  TRAIL  241 

"Ay,"    he    nodded    his    head.     "But    they    were 
without  beginning  and  without  end." 

"The  last  picture  of  all  had  an  end,"  I  said. 
"Ay,"  he  answered.     "But  what  end?" 
"It  was  a  piece  of  life,"  I  said. 
"Ay,"  he  answered.     "It  was  a  piece  of  life." 


NEGORE,    THE    COWARD 


NEGORE,  THE  COWARD 

HE  had  followed  the  trail  of  his  fleeing  people 
for  eleven  days,  and  his  pursuit  had  been  in 
itself  a  flight;  for  behind  him  he  knew  full 
well  were  the  dreaded  Russians,  toiling  through  the 
swampy  lowlands  and  over  the  steep  divides,  bent 
on  no  less  than  the  extermination  of  all  his  people. 
He  was  travelling  light.  A  rabbit-skin  sleeping- 
robe,  a  muzzle-loading  rifle,  and  a  few  pounds  of 
sun-dried  salmon  constituted  his  outfit.  He  would 
have  marvelled  that  a  whole  people  —  women  and 
children  and  aged  —  could  travel  so  swiftly,  had  he 
not  known  the  terror  that  drove  them  on. 

It  was  in  the  old  days  of  the  Russian  occupancy 
of  Alaska,  when  the  nineteenth  century  had  run 
but  half  its  course,  that  Negore  fled  after  his  fleeing 
tribe  and  came  upon  it  this  summer  night  by  the 
head  waters  of  the  Pee-lat.  Though  near  the  mid 
night  hour,  it  was  bright  day  as  he  passed  through 
the  weary  camp.  Many  saw  him,  all  knew  him, 
but  few  and  cold  were  the  greetings  he  received. 

245 


246  NEGORE,   THE   COWARD 

"Negore,  the  Coward,"  he  heard  Illiha,  a  young 
woman,  laugh,  and  Sun-ne,  his  sister's  daughter, 
laughed  with  her. 

Black  anger  ate  at  his  heart;  but  he  gave  no 
sign,  threading  his  way  among  the  camp-fires  until 
he  came  to  one  where  sat  an  old  man.  A  young 
woman  was  kneading  with  skilful  fingers  the  tired 
muscles  of  his  legs.  He  raised  a  sightless  face 
and  listened  intently  as  Negore's  foot  crackled  a 
dead  twig. 

"Who  comes?"  he  queried  in  a  thin,  tremulous 
voice. 

"Negore,"  said  the  young  woman,  scarcely  look 
ing  up  from  her  task. 

Negore's  face  was  expressionless.  For  many 
minutes  he  stood  and  waited.  The  old  man's 
head  had  sunk  back  upon  his  chest.  The  young 
woman  pressed  and  prodded  the  wasted  muscles, 
resting  her  body  on  her  knees,  her  bowed  head 
hidden  as  in  a  cloud  by  her  black  wealth  of  hair. 
Negore  watched  the  supple  body,  bending  at  the 
hips  as  a  lynx's  body  might  bend,  pliant  as  a  young 
willow  stalk,  and,  withal,  strong  as  only  youth  is 
strong.  He  looked,  and  was  aware  of  a  great 


NEGORE,   THE    COWARD  247 

yearning,  akin  in  sensation  to  physical  hunger. 
At  last  he  spoke,  saying: 

"Is  there  no  greeting  for  Negore,  who  has  been 
long  gone  and  has  but  now  come  back?'* 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  cold  eyes.  The  old 
man  chuckled  to  himself  after  the  manner  of  the 
old. 

"Thou  art  my  woman,  Oona,"  Negore  said,  his 
tones  dominant  and  conveying  a  hint  of  menace. 

She  arose  with  catlike  ease  and  suddenness  to 
her  full  height,  her  eyes  flashing,  her  nostrils  quiver 
ing  like  a  deer's. 

"  I  was  thy  woman  to  be,  Negore,  but  thou  art  a 
coward;  the  daughter  of  Old  Kinoos  mates  not 
with  a  coward  ! " 

She  silenced  him  with  an  imperious  gesture  as  he 
strove  to  speak. 

"Old  Kinoos  and  I  came  among  you  from  a 
strange  land.  Thy  people  took  us  in  by  their  fires 
and  made  us  warm,  nor  asked  whence  or  why  we 
wandered.  It  was  their  thought  that  Old  Kinoos 
had  lost  the  sight  of  his  eyes  from  age;  nor  did  Old 
Kinoos  say  otherwise,  nor  did  I,  his  daughter.  Old 
Kinoos  is  a  brave  man,  but  Old  Kinoos  was  never 


248  NEGORE,   THE   COWARD 

a  boaster.  And  now,  when  I  tell  thee  of  how  his 
blindness  came  to  be,  thou  wilt  know,  beyond 
question,  that  the  daughter  of  Kinoos  cannot 
mother  the  children  of  a  coward  such  as  thou  art, 
Negore." 

Again  she  silenced  the  speech  that  rushed  up  to 
his  tongue. 

"  Know,  Negore,  if  journey  be  added  unto  journey 
of  all  thy  journeyings  through  this  land,  thou 
wouldst  not  come  to  the  unknown  Sitka  on  the  Great 
Salt  Sea.  In  that  place  there  be  many  Russian  folk, 
and  their  rule  is  harsh.  And  from  Sitka,  Old 
Kinoos,  who  was  Young  Kinoos  in  those  days,  fled 
away  with  me,  a  babe  in  his  arms,  along  the  islands 
in  the  midst  of  the  sea.  My  mother  dead  tells  the 
tale  of  his  wrong;  a  Russian,  dead  with  a  spear 
through  breast  and  back,  tells  the  tale  of  the  ven 
geance  of  Kinoos. 

"But  wherever  we  fled,  and  however  far  we  fled, 
always  did  we  find  the  hated  Russian  folk.  Kinoos 
was  unafraid,  but  the  sight  of  them  was  a  hurt  to 
his  eyes;  so  we  fled  on  and  on,  through  the  seas 
and  years,  till  we  came  to  the  Great  Fog  Sea,  Negore, 
of  which  thou  hast  heard,  but  which  thou  hast  never 


NEGORE,   THE   COWARD  249 

seen.  We  lived  among  many  peoples,  and  I  grew 
to  be  a  woman;  but  Kinoos,  growing  old,  took  to 
him  no  other  woman,  nor  did  I  take  a  man. 

"At  last  we  came  to  Pastolik,  which  is  where  the 
Yukon  drowns  itself  in  the  Great  Fog  Sea.  Here 
we  lived  long,  on  the  rim  of  the  sea,  among  a  people 
by  whom  the  Russians  were  well  hated.  But  some 
times  they  came,  these  Russians,  in  great  ships, 
and  made  the  people  of  Pastolik  show  them  the  way 
through  the  islands  uncountable  of  the  many- 
mouthed  Yukon.  And  sometimes  the  men  they 
took  to  show  them  the  way  never  came  back,  till 
the  people  became  angry  and  planned  a  great  plan. 

"So,  when  there  came  a  ship,  Old  Kinoos  stepped 
forward  and  said  he  would  show  the  way.  He  was 
an  old  man  then,  and  his  hair  was  white;  but  he 
was  unafraid.  And  he  was  cunning,  for  he  took 
the  ship  to  where  the  sea  sucks  in  to  the  land  and 
the  waves  beat  white  on  the  mountain  called  Ro 
manoff.  The  sea  sucked  the  ship  in  to  where  the 
waves  beat  white,  and  it  ground  upon  the  rocks 
and  broke  open  its  sides.  Then  came  all  the  people 
of  Pastolik,  (for  this  was  the  plan),  with  their  war- 
spears,  and  arrows,  and  some  few  guns.  But  first 


250  NEGORE,   THE   COWARD 

the  Russians  put  out  the  eyes  of  Old  Kinoos  that 
he  might  never  show  the  way  again,  and  then  they 
fought,  where  the  waves  beat  white,  with  the  people 
of  Pastolik. 

"Now  the  head-man  of  these  Russians  was  Ivan. 
He  it  was,  with  his  two  thumbs,  who  drove  out  the 
eyes  of  Kinoos.  He  it  was  who  fought  his  way 
through  the  white  water,  with  two  men  left  of  all 
his  men,  and  went  away  along  the  rim  of  the  Great 
Fog  Sea  into  the  north.  Kinoos  was  wise.  He 
could  see  no  more  and  was  helpless  as  a  child.  So 
he  fled  away  from  the  sea,  up  the  great,  strange 
Yukon,  even  to  Nulato,  and  I  fled  with  him. 

"This  was  the  deed  my  father  did,  Kinoos,  an 
old  man.  But  how  did  the  young  man,  Negore?" 

Once  again  she  silenced  him. 

"With  my  own  eyes  I  saw,  at  Nulato,  before  the 
gates  of  the  great  fort,  and  but  few  days  gone. 
I  saw  the  Russian,  Ivan,  who  thrust  out  my  father's 
eyes,  lay  the  lash  of  his  dog-whip  upon  thee  and 
beat  thee  like  a  dog.  This  I  saw,  and  knew  thee 
for  a  coward.  But  I  saw  thee  not,  that  night,  when 
all  thy  people  —  yea,  even  the  boys  not  yet  hunters 
—  fell  upon  the  Russians  and  slew  them  all." 


NEGORE,   THE   COWARD  251 

"Not  Ivan,"  said  Negore,  quietly.  "Even  now  is 
he  on  our  heels,  and  with  him  many  Russians  fresh 
up  from  the  sea." 

Oona  made  no  effort  to  hide  her  surprise  and 
chagrin  that  Ivan  was  not  dead,  but  went  on: 

"In  the  day  I  saw  thee  a  coward;  in  the  night, 
when  all  men  fought,  even  the  boys  not  yet  hunters, 
I  saw  thee  not  and  knew  thee  doubly  a  coward." 

"Thou  art  done?     All  done?"    Negore  asked. 

She  nodded  her  head  and  looked  at  him  askance, 
as  though  astonished  that  he  should  have  aught  to 
say. 

"Know  then  that  Negore  is  no  coward,"  he  said; 
and  his  speech  was  very  low  and  quiet.  "Know 
that  when  I  was  yet  a  boy  I  journeyed  alone  down 
to  the  place  where  the  Yukon  drowns  itself  in  the 
Great  Fog  Sea.  Even  to  Pastolik  I  journeyed,  and 
even  beyond,  into  the  north,  along  the  rim  of  the 
sea.  This  I  did  when  I  was  a  boy,  and  I  was  no 
coward.  Nor  was  I  coward  when  I  journeyed,  a 
young  man  and  alone,  up  the  Yukon  farther  than 
man  had  ever  been,  so  far  that  I  came  to  another 
folk,  with  white  faces,  who  live  in  a  great  fort  and 
talk  speech  other  than  that  the  Russians  talk.  Also 


252  NEGORE,   THE   COWARD 

have  I  killed  the  great  bear  of  the  Tanana  country, 
where  no  one  of  my  people  hath  ever  been.  And  I 
have  fought  with  the  Nuklukyets,  and  the  Kaltags, 
and  the  Sticks  in  far  regions,  even  I,  and  alone. 
These  deeds,  whereof  no  man  knows,  I  speak  for 
myself.  Let  my  people  speak  for  me  of  things  I 
have  done  which  they  know.  They  will  not  say 
Negore  is  a  coward." 

He  finished  proudly,  and  proudly  waited. 

"These  be  things  which  happened  before  I  came 
into  the  land,"  she  said,  "and  I  know  not  of  them. 
Only  do  I  know  what  I  know,  and  I  know  I  saw 
thee  lashed  like  a  dog  in  the  day;  and  in  the  night, 
when  the  great  fort  flamed  red  and  the  men  killed 
and  were  killed,  I  saw  thee  not.  Also,  thy  people 
do  call  thee  Negore,  the  Coward.  It  is  thy  name 
now,  Negore,  the  Coward." 

"It  is  not  a  good  name,"  Old  Kinoos  chuckled. 

"Thou  dost  not  understand,  Kinoos,"  Negore 
said  gently.  "  But  I  shall  make  thee  understand. 
Know  that  I  was  away  on  the  hunt  of  the  bear,  with 
Kamo-tah,  my  mother's  son.  And  Kamo-tah  fought 
with  a  great  bear.  We  had  no  meat  for  three  days, 
and  Kamo-tah  was  not  strong  of  arm  nor  swift  of 


NEGORE,   THE   COWARD  253 

foot.  And  the  great  bear  crushed  him,  so,  till  his 
bones  cracked  like  dry  sticks.  Thus  I  found  him, 
very  sick  and  groaning  upon  the  ground.  And 
there  was  no  meat,  nor  could  I  kill  aught  that  the 
sick  man  might  eat. 

"So  I  said,  'I  will  go  to  Nulato  and  bring  thee 
food,  also  strong  men  to  carry  thee  to  camp.'  And 
Kamo-tah  said,  'Go  thou  to  Nulato  and  get  food, 
but  say  no  word  of  what  has  befallen  me.  And 
when  I  have  eaten,  and  am  grown  well  and  strong, 
I  will  kill  this  bear.  Then  will  I  return  in  honor 
to  Nulato,  and  no  man  may  laugh  and  say  Kamo-tah 
was  undone  by  a  bear/ 

"So  I  gave  heed  to  my  brother's  words;  and  when 
I  was  come  to  Nulato,  and  the  Russian,  Ivan,  laid 
the  lash  of  his  dog-whip  upon  me,  I  knew  I  must 
not  fight.  For  no  man  knew  of  Kamo-tah,  sick  and 
groaning  and  hungry;  and  did  I  fight  with  Ivan, 
and  die,  then  would  my  brother  die,  too.  So  it 
was,  Oona,  that  thou  sawest  me  beaten  like  a  dog. 

"Then  I  heard  the  talk  of  the  shamans  and  chiefs 
that  the  Russians  had  brought  strange  sicknesses 
upon  the  people,  and  killed  our  men,  and  stolen 
our  women,  and  that  the  land  must  be  made  clean. 


254  NEGORE,   THE    COWARD 

As  I  say,  I  heard  the  talk,  and  I  knew  it  for  good 
talk,  and  I  knew  that  in  the  night  the  Russians  were 
to  be  killed.  But  there  was  my  brother,  Kamo-tah, 
sick  and  groaning  and  with  no  meat;  so  I  could  not 
stay  and  fight  with  the  men  and  the  boys  not  yet 
hunters. 

"And  I  took  with  me  meat  and  fish,  and  the  lash- 
marks  of  Ivan,  and  I  found  Kamo-tah  no  longer 
groaning,  but  dead.  Then  I  went  back  to  Nulato, 
and,  behold,  there  was  no  Nulato  —  only  ashes 
where  the  great  fort  had  stood,  and  the  bodies  of 
many  men.  And  I  saw  the  Russians  come  up  the 
Yukon  in  boats,  fresh  from  the  sea,  many  Russians; 
and  I  saw  Ivan  creep  forth  from  where  he  lay  hid 
and  make  talk  with  them.  And  the  next  day  I 
saw  Ivan  lead  them  upon  the  trail  of  the  tribe. 
Even  now  are  they  upon  the  trail,  and  I  am  here, 
Negore,  but  no  coward." 

"This  is  a  tale  I  hear,"  said  Oona,  though  her 
voice  was  gentler  than  before.  "Kamo-tah  is  dead 
and  cannot  speak  for  thee,  and  I  know  only  what 
I  know,  and  I  must  know  thee  of  my  own  eyes  for 
no  coward." 

Negore  made  an  impatient  gesture. 


NEGORE,   THE    COWARD  255 

"There  be  ways  and  ways,"  she  added.  "Art 
thou  willing  to  do  no  less  than  what  Old  Kinoos 
hath  done?" 

He  nodded  his  head,  and  waited. 

"As  thou  hast  said,  they  seek  for  us  even  now, 
these  Russians.  Show  them  the  way,  Negore,  even 
as  Old  Kinoos  showed  them  the  way,  so  that  they 
come,  unprepared,  to  where  we  wait  for  them,  in  a 
passage  up  the  rocks.  Thou  knowest  the  place, 
where  the  wall  is  broken  and  high.  Then  will  we 
destroy  them,  even  Ivan.  When  they  cling  like  flies 
to  the  wall,  and  top  is  no  less  near  than  bottom,  our 
men  shall  fall  upon  them  from  above  and  either 
side,  with  spears,  and  arrows,  and  guns.  And  the 
women  and  children,  from  above,  shall  loosen  the 
great  rocks  and  hurl  them  down  upon  them.  It  will 
be  a  great  day,  for  the  Russians  will  be  killed,  the 
land  will  be  made  clean,  and  Ivan,  even  Ivan  who 
thrust  out  my  father's  eyes  and  laid  the  lash  of  his 
dog-whip  upon  thee,  will  be  killed.  Like  a  dog  gone 
mad  will  he  die,  his  breath  crushed  out  of  him  be 
neath  the  rocks.  And  when  the  fighting  begins,  it 
is  for  thee,  Negore,  to  crawl  secretly  away  so  that 
thou  be  not  slain." 


256  NEGORE,   THE   COWARD 

"Even  so,"  he  answered.  "Negore  will  show 
them  the  way.  And  then  ?" 

"And  then  I  shall  be  thy  woman,  Negore's  woman, 
the  brave  man's  woman.  And  thou  shalt  hunt  meat 
for  me  and  Old  Kinoos,  and  I  shall  cook  thy  food,  j 
and  sew  thee  warm  parkas  and  strong,  and  make 
thee  moccasins  after  the  way  of  my  people,  which 
is  a  better  way  than  thy  people's  way.  And  as  I 
say,  I  shall  be  thy  woman,  Negore,  always  thy 
woman.  And  I  shall  make  thy  life  glad  for  thee, 
so  that  all  thy  days  will  be  a  song  and  laughter, 
and  thou  wilt  know  the  woman  Oona  as  unlike  all 
other  women,  for  she  has  journeyed  far,  and  lived 
in  strange  places,  and  is  wise  in  the  ways  of  men 
and  in  the  ways  they  may  be  made  glad.  And  in 
thine  old  age  will  she  still  make  thee  glad,  and  thy 
memory  of  her  in  the  days  of  thy  strength  will  be 
sweet,  for  thou  wilt  know  always  that  she  was  ease 
to  thee,  and  peace,  and  rest,  and  that  beyond  all 
women  to  other  men  has  she  been  woman  to  thee." 

"Even  so,"  said  Negore,  and  the  hunger  for  her 
ate  at  his  heart,  and  his  arms  went  out  for  her  as 
a  hungry  man's  arms  might  go  out  for  food. 

"When  thou  hast  shown  the  way,  Negore,"  she 


NEGORE,   THE   COWARD  257 

chided  him;  but  her  eyes  were  soft  and  warm,  and 
he  knew  she  looked  upon  him  as  woman  had  never 
looked  before. 

"It  is  well,"  he  said,  turning  resolutely  on  his 
heel.  "I  go  now  to  make  talk  with  the  chiefs,  so 
that  they  may  know  I  am  gone  to  show  the  Rus 
sians  the  way." 

"Oh,  Negore,  my  man!  my  man!"  she  said  to 
herself,  as  she  watched  him  go,  but  she  said  it  so 
softly  that  even  Old  Kinoos  did  not  hear,  and  his 
ears  were  over  keen,  what  of  his  blindness. 

Three  days  later,  having  with  craft  ill-concealed 
his  hiding-place,  Negore  was  dragged  forth  like  a 
rat  and  brought  before  Ivan-  "Ivan  the  Terrible" 
he  was  known  by  the  men  who  marched  at  his  back. 
Negore  was  armed  with  a  miserable  bone-barbed 
spear,  and  he  kept  his  rabbit-skin  robe  wrapped 
closely  about  him,  and  though  the  day  was  warm 
he  shivered  as  with  an  ague.  He  shook  his  head 
that  he  did  not  understand  the  speech  Ivan  put  at 
him,  and  made  that  he  was  very  weary  and  sick, 
and  wished  only  to  sit  down  and  rest,  pointing  the 
while  to  his  stomach  in  sign  of  his  sickness,  and 


258  NEGORE,   THE    COWARD 

shivering  fiercely.  But  Ivan  had  with  him  a  man 
from  Pastolik  who  talked  the  speech  of  Negore, 
and  many  and  vain  were  the  questions  they  asked 
him  concerning  his  tribe,  till  the  man  from  Pastolik, 
who  was  called  Karduk,  said : 

"It  is  the  word  of  Ivan  that  thou  shalt  be  lashed 
till  thou  diest  if  thou  dost  not  speak.  And  know, 
strange  brother,  when  I  tell  thee  the  word  of  Ivan 
is  the  law,  that  I  am  thy  friend  and  no  friend  of 
Ivan.  For  I  come  not  willingly  from  my  country 
by  the  sea,  and  I  desire  greatly  to  live;  wherefore 
I  obey  the  will  of  my  master  —  as  thou  wilt  obey, 
strange  brother,  if  thou  art  wise,  and  wouldst  live." 

"Nay,  strange  brother,"  Negore  answered,  "I 
know  not  the  way  my  people  are  gone,  for  I  was 
sick,  and  they  fled  so  fast  my  legs  gave  out  from 
under  me,  and  I  fell  behind." 

Negore  waited  while  Karduk  talked  with  Ivan. 
Then  Negore  saw  the  Russian's  face  go  dark,  and 
he  saw  the  men  step  to  either  side  of  him,  snapping 
the  lashes  of  their  whips.  Whereupon  he  betrayed 
a  great  fright,  and  cried  aloud  that  he  was  a  sick 
man  and  knew  nothing,  but  would  tell  what  he 
knew.  And  to  such  purpose  did  he  tell,  that  Ivan 


NEGORE,   THE   COWARD  259 

gave  the  word  to  his  men  to  march,  and  on  either 
side  of  Negore  marched  the  men  with  the  whips, 
that  he  might  not  run  away.  And  when  he  made 
that  he  was  weak  of  his  sickness,  and  stumbled 
and  walked  not  so  fast  as  they  walked,  they  laid 
their  lashes  upon  him  till  he  screamed  with  pain 
and  discovered  new  strength.  And  when  Karduk 
told  him  all  would  be  well  with  him  when  they  had 
overtaken  his  tribe,  he  asked,  "And  then  may  I 
rest  and  move  not?" 

Continually  he  asked,  "And  then  may  I  rest  and 
move  not  ?" 

And  while  he  appeared  very  sick  and  looked  about 
him  with  dull  eyes,  he  noted  the  righting  strength 
of  Ivan's  men,  and  noted  with  satisfaction  that  Ivan 
did  not  recognize  him  as  the  man  he  had  beaten 
before  the  gates  of  the  fort.  It  was  a  strange  fol 
lowing  his  dull  eyes  saw.  There  were  Slavonian 
hunters,  fair-skinned  and  mighty-muscled;  short, 
squat  Finns,  with  flat  noses  and  round  faces;  Si 
berian  half-breeds,  whose  noses  were  more  like 
eagle-beaks;  and  lean,  slant-eyed  men,  who  bore 
in  their  veins  the  Mongol  and  Tartar  blood  as  well 
as  the  blood  of  the  Slav.  Wild  adventurers  they 


260  NEGORE,   THE    COWARD 

were,  forayers  and  destroyers  from  the  far  lands 
beyond  the  Sea  of  Bering,  who  blasted  the  new 
and  unknown  world  with  fire  and  sword  and  clutched 
greedily  for  its  wealth  of  fur  and  hide.  Negore 
looked  upon  them  with  satisfaction,  and  in  his 
mind's  eye  he  saw  them  crushed  and  lifeless  at  the 
passage  up  the  rocks.  And  ever  he  saw,  waiting 
for  him  at  the  passage  up  the  rocks,  the  face  and 
the  form  of  Oona,  and  ever  he  heard  her  voice  in 
his  ears  and  felt  the  soft,  warm  glow  of  her  eyes. 
But  never  did  he  forget  to  shiver,  nor  to  stumble 
where  the  footing  was  rough,  nor  to  cry  aloud  at  the 
bite  of  the  lash.  Also,  he  was  afraid  of  Karduk, 
for  he  knew  him  for  no  true  man.  His  was  a  false 
eye,  and  an  easy  tongue  —  a  tongue  too  easy,  he 
judged,  for  the  awkwardness  of  honest  speech. 

All  that  day  they  marched.  And  on  the  next, 
when  Karduk  asked  him  at  command  of  Ivan,  he 
said  he  doubted  they  would  meet  with  his  tribe  till 
the  morrow.  But  Ivan,  who  had  once  been  shown 
the  way  by  Old  Kinoos,  and  had  found  that  way 
to  lead  through  the  white  water  and  a  deadly  fight, 
believed  no  more  in  anything.  So  when  they  came 
to  a  passage  up  the  rocks,  he  halted  his  forty  men, 


NEGORE,   THE   COWARD  261 

and  through  Karduk  demanded  if  the  way  were 
clear. 

Negore  looked  at  it  shortly  and  carelessly.  It 
was  a  vast  slide  that  broke  the  straight  wall  of  a 
cliff,  and  was  overrun  with  brush  and  creeping 
plants,  where  a  score  of  tribes  could  have  lain  well 
hidden. 

He  shook  his  head.  "Nay,  there  be  nothing 
there,"  he  said.  "The  way  is  clear." 

Again  Ivan  spoke  to  Karduk,  and  Karduk  said : 

"Know,  strange  brother,  if  thy  talk  be  not 
straight,  and  if  thy  people  block  the  way  and  fall 
upon  Ivan  and  his  men,  that  thou  shalt  die,  and 


at  once." 


"My  talk  is  straight,"  Negore  said.  "The  way 
is  clear." 

Still  Ivan  doubted,  and  ordered  two  of  his  Sla 
vonian  hunters  to  go  up  alone.  Two  other  men  he 
ordered  to  the  side  of  Negore.  They  placed  their 
guns  against  his  breast  and  waited.  All  waited. 
And  Negore  knew,  should  one  arrow  fly,  or  one 
spear  be  flung,  that  his  death  would  come  upon 
him.  The  two  Slavonian  hunters  toiled  upward 
till  they  grew  small  and  smaller,  and  when  they 


262  NEGORE,   THE   COWARD 

reached  the  top  and  waved  their  hats  that  all 
was  well,  they  wTere  like  black  specks  against  the 
sky. 

The  guns  were  lowered  from  Negore's  breast 
and  Ivan  gave  the  order  for  his  men  to  go  forward. 
Ivan  was  silent,  lost  in  thought.  For  an  hour  he 
marched,  as  though  puzzled,  and  then,  through 
Karduk's  mouth,  he  said  to  Negore: 

"How  didst  thou  know  the  way  was  clear  when 
thou  didst  look  so  briefly  upon  it?" 

Negore  thought  of  the  little  birds  he  had  seen 
perched  among  the  rocks  and  upon  the  bushes, 
and  smiled,  it  was  so  simple;  but  he  shrugged  his 
shoulders  and  made  no  answer.  For  he  was  think 
ing,  likewise,  of  another  passage  up  the  rocks,  to 
which  they  would  soon  come,  and  where  the  little 
birds  would  all  be  gone.  And  he  was  glad  that 
Karduk  came  from  the  Great  Fog  Sea,  where  there 
were  no  trees  or  bushes,  and  where  men  learned 
water-craft  instead  of  land-craft  and  wood-craft. 

Three  hours  later,  when  the  sun  rode  overhead, 
they  came  to  another  passage  up  the  rocks,  and 
Karduk  said: 

"Look  with  all  thine  eyes,  strange  brother,  and 


NEGORE,   THE   COWARD  263 

see  if  the  way  be  clear,  for  Ivan  is  not  minded  this 
time  to  wait  while  men  go  up  before/' 

Negore  looked,  and  he  looked  with  two  men  by 
his  side,  their  guns  resting  against  his  breast.  He 
saw  that  the  little  birds  were  all  gone,  and  once  he 
saw  the  glint  of  sunlight  on  a  rifle-barrel.  And 
he  thought  of  Oona,  and  of  her  words :  "And  when 
the  fighting  begins,  it  is  for  thee,  Negore,  to  crawl 
secretly  away  so  that  thou  be  not  slain." 

He  felt  the  two  guns  pressing  on  his  breast.  This 
was  not  the  way  she  had  planned.  There  would 
be  no  crawling  secretly  away.  He  would  be  the 
first  to  die  when  the  fighting  began.  But  he  said, 
and  his  voice  was  steady,  and  he  still  feigned  to  see 
with  dull  eyes  and  to  shiver  from  his  sickness : 

"The  way  is  clear." 

And  they  started  up,  Ivan  and  his  forty  men  from 
the  far  lands  beyond  the  Sea  of  Bering.  And 
there  was  Karduk,  the  man  from  Pastolik,  and 
Negore,  with  the  two  guns  always  upon  him.  It 
wTas  a  long  climb,  and  they  could  not  go  fast;  but 
very  fast  to  Negore  they  seemed  to  approach  the 
midway  point  where  top  was  no  less  near  than 
bottom. 


264  NEGORE,   THE   COWARD 

A  gun  cracked  among  the  rocks  to  the  right,  and 
Negore  heard  the  war-yell  of  all  his  tribe,  and  for 
an  instant  saw  the  rocks  and  bushes  bristle  alive 
with  his  kinfolk.  Then  he  felt  torn  asunder  by  a 
burst  of  flame  hot  through  his  being,  and  as  he  fell 
he  knew  the  sharp  pangs  of  life  as  it  wrenches  at 
the  flesh  to  be  free. 

But  he  gripped  his  life  with  a  miser's  clutch  and 
would  not  let  it  go.  He  still  breathed  the  air,  which 
bit  his  lungs  with  a  painful  sweetness;  and  dimly 
he  saw  and  heard,  with  passing  spells  of  blindness 
and  deafness,  the  flashes  of  sight  and  sound  again 
wherein  he  saw  the  hunters  of  Ivan  falling  to  their 
deaths,  and  his  own  brothers  fringing  the  carnage 
and  filling  the  air  with  the  tumult  of  their  cries  and 
weapons,  and,  far  above,  the  women  and  children 
loosing  the  great  rocks  that  leaped  like  things  alive 
and  thundered  down. 

The  sun  danced  above  him  in  the  sky,  the  huge 
walls  reeled  and  swung,  and  still  he  heard  and  saw 
dimly.  And  when  the  great  Ivan  fell  across  his 
legs,  hurled  there  lifeless  and  crushed  by  a  down- 
rushing  rock,  he  remembered  the  blind  eyes  of  Old 
Kinoos  and  was  glad. 


NEGORE,   THE   COWARD  265 

Then  the  sounds  died  down,  and  the  rocks  no 
longer  thundered  past,  and  he  saw  his  tribespeople 
creeping  close  and  closer,  spearing  the  wounded 
as  they  came.  And  near  to  him  he  heard  the  scuffle 
of  a  mighty  Slavonian  hunter,  loath  to  die,  and,  half 
uprisen,  borne  back  and  down  by  the  thirsty  spears. 

Then  he  saw  above  him  the  face  of  Oona,  and 
felt  about  him  the  arms  of  Oona;  and  for  a  moment 
the  sun  steadied  and  stood  still,  and  the  great  walls 
were  upright  and  moved  not. 

:'Thou  art  a  brave  man,  Negore,"  he  heard  her 
say  in  his  ear;  "thou  art  my  man,  Negore." 

And  in  that  moment  he  lived  all  the  life  of  glad 
ness  of  which  she  had  told  him,  and  the  laughter 
and  the  song,  and  as  the  sun  went  out  of  the  sky 
above  him,  as  in  his  old  age,  he  knew  the  memory  of 
her  was  sweet.  And  as  even  the  memories  dimmed 
and  died  in  the  darkness  that  fell  upon  him,  he  knew 
in  her  arms  the  fulfilment  of  all  the  ease  and  rest 
she  had  promised  him.  And  as  black  night  wrapped 
around  him,  his  head  upon  her  breast,  he  felt  a 
great  peace  steal  about  him,  and  he  was  aware  of 
the  hush  of  many  twilights  and  the  mystery  of 
silence. 


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